UCSB   LIBRARY 

X- 


'  >  /,  , 


THE 


MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE 


51 


HOME  INFLUENCE, 


GRACE  AGUILAR, 

ACTHOB     0?    "THE    VAT.E     OF     CEDARS,"    "  WOMAN'S     FRIENDSHIP,"     '  HO»   IN- 

t-E,"  "THE  \\-OMEX  OF  ISRAEL,"  ETC. 


THIRTY-NINTH 


NEW-YOKK : 

D.     APPLETON    &     COMPANY, 

443    A    445  BROADWAY. 
1862. 


PREFACE. 


THE  domestic  story  of  "  Home  Influence,"  and  its  Se- 
quel, the  present  volume,  were  written  in  the  early  part 
of  the  year  1836,  and  the  entire  work  was  completed 
when  its  author  was  little  above  the  age  of  nineteen ; 
and,  although  no  portion  of  it  was  published  till  some 
years  after  its  composition,  but  little  alteration  was 
made  in  the  original  plan. 

The  labors  of  my  dear  child  were  unceasing,  and 
from  the  hour  when  she  could  read,  it  may  truly  be 
stated  that  she  learned  to  write ;  her  contributions  to 
the  current  literature  of  the  day,  her  valuable  works 
upon  religious  subjects,  and  others  of  a  lighter  charac- 
ter, most  of  which  have  been  reprinted  in  <~>uier  lands, 
all  testify  to  a  mind  of  no  common  stamp ;  and  here,  iu 
reply  to  numerous  questions  relative  to  her  literary  re- 
mains, I  may  state  that  Grace  Aguilar  has  left  many 
excellent  works  in  manuscript,  both  in  prose  and  verse ; 
some  of  which  may,  at  a  future  day,  be  presented  to  the 
public. 

I  have  been  induced  to  publish  "  The  Mother's 
Ilecompense,"  in  compliance  with  the  repeated  solicita- 
tions of  many  friends,  but  in  doing  so  I  feel  it  incum- 
bent on  me  to  state  that,  unlike  its  predecessor,  it  has 
not  received  the  advantage  of  that  correction,  which 


IV  PREFACE 

later  years  and  ripened  judgment  would  doubtless  have 
cast  around  it.  A  long  and  fatal  illness  prevented  ita 
revision  for  the  press ;  the  circumstances  of  which  will 
be  found  detailed  in  a  short  memoir,  accompanying  the 
last  edition  of  "  Home  Influence."  The  universal  voice 
of  praise,  which  attended  the  publication  of  that  work, 
it  was  not  permitted  her  to  enjoy, — an  all- wise  Creator 
called  her  to  himself. 

It  was  ever  my  dear  child's  wish  to  aid,  by  the  exam- 
ple of  her  pen,  the  Education  of  the  Heart.  It  was  her 
desire,  in  the  truthful  exemplification  of  character,  to 
point  out  to  the  youthful  of  her  own  sex  the  paths  of 
rectitude  and  virtue.  The  same  kindly  love— the  same 
heartfelt  charity — the  same  spirit  of  devotion,  which 
breathes  through  every  line  in  "  Home  Influence,"  will 
be  found  pervading  the  pages  of  the  present  work. 

If,  then,  the  Home  Education  of  the  Hamilton  Fami- 
ly be  well  traced  and  faithfully  delineated  in  "Home 
Influence,"  a  Tale  for  Mothers  and  Daughters,  its  effect 
will  be  found  illustrated  in  the  "  Mother's  Recom- 
pense ;"  there,  as  its  dear  author  writes,  will  still  further 
be  portrayed  the  cares,  anxieties,  and  ultimate  reward 
of  maternal  love. 

SARAH  AGUILAR. 
December,  1850. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

From  Emmeline  Hamilton  to  Mary  Greviffe. 

LONDON,  January,  19—. 

AT  length,  dearest  Mary,  I  may  write  to  you ;  at  length  in- 
dulge my  long-controlled  wishes.  My  conscience  has  given  ma 
permission  now,  though  I  once  thought  I  never  could  again. 
We  parted  in  August,  and  it  is  now  January ;  and  except 
during  our  little  tour,  you  have  not  had  one  line  from  me,  but 
very  many  more  than  one  from  Caroline  and  Ellen.  I  used  to 
wrong  them,  but  I  am  glad  I  adhered  to  mamma's  advice  and 
my  resolution,  painful  as  it  has  been  ;  for  it  did  seem  hard  that 
I,  who  consider  myself  even  more  my  dear  Mary's  own  friend, 
should  not  address  you  when  my  sister  and  cousin  did.  And 
now  to  explain  this  riddle,  for  though  mamma  has  excused  my 
silence  to  you,  I  am  quite  sure  she  has  not  told  you  the  real 
truth.  She  would  not  expose  my  silly  weakness,  and  therefore 
prepare  yourself  for  a  most  humiliating  confession,  which  will, 
in  all  probability,  lower  me  ten  degrees  in  your  estimation. 
However,  truth  must  be  told,  and  so  it  shall  be,  with  all  the 
necessary  regularity  and  precision.  You  know,  almost  better 
than  any  one  else,  how  very  much  I  disliked  the  thought  of 
leaving  dear  happy  Oakwood,  and  residing  any  part  of  the  year 
in  London.  You  often  used  to  warn  me,  when  T  have  thus 
spoken,  against  permitting  such  fancies  to  obtain  too  much 
domiipon  ;  but  I  did  not  follow  your  advice,  dear  Mary,  but 
indulged  them  till,  of  course,  they  became  so  heightened  that 
the  last  month  of  our  sojourn  at  Oakwood  was  embittered  by 
the  anticipation.  I  saw  you  thought  me  foolish,  and  I  knew 
thai  mamma  and  papa's  plans  could  not  be  altered  to  please  my 
fancy,  and  that  my  confessed  distaste  to  them  would  give  pain 
to  both  :  therefore,  I  concealed  my  dislike,  but  instead  of  doing 
all  I  could  to  conquer  it.  encouraged  every  gloomy  anticipation 
to  the  very  utmost.  I  found,  during  our  delightful  tour  through. 
the  south  of  England,  I  could  enjoy  myself,  but  still  the 


2  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

thoughts  of  London,  and  masters,  and  strangers,  aiid  the  fancy 
our  style  of  living  would  be  so  different  in  the  metropolis  to 
what  it  was  at  Oakwood,  and  that  I  should  not  see  nearly  as 
much  of  mamma,  all  chose  to  come,  like  terrifying  spectres,  to 
scare  away  the  present  pleasure. 

We  visited  Oxford,  although  completely  out  of  our  wav,  in 
order  that  we  might  see  the  residence  of  my  brothers.  There 
Percy's  wild  mirth  and  eloquent  descriptions  partly  banished 
my  ill-humor,  but,  as  I  neared  London,  all  my  fancied  evils 
returned  to  me  again.  When  we  first  arrived,  which  was  in 
September,  this  huge  city  was.  comparatively  speaking,  a  desert; 
for  all  the  fashionables  were  out  ruralizing.  Mamma  was  not, 
I  believe,  sorry  for  this,  for  she  wished  us  to  have  full  six  or 
seven  months'  hard  study  before  she  entered  at  all  into  society. 
Ellen  and  I.  of  course,  will  have  more,  but  Caroline  is  to  make 
her  regular  entree  in  March  or  April,  and  therefore  must  be 
drilled  accordingly.  First-rate  masters  were  instantly  engaged  ; 
indeed  papa  had  written  to  many  before  we  arrived,  that  no 
time  should  be  lost,  and  as  ahnost^all  their  pupils  were  from 
London,  we  had  the  choice  of  hours,  which  was  very  agreeable, 
although  at  that  time  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  think  any  thing 
agreeable,  being  accustomed  to  no  instruction  save  that  bestowed 
by  Miss  Harcourt  and  mamma ;  professors  of  music,  drawing, 
French,  Italian.  German  (which  Caroline  is  seized  with  a  violent 
fancy  to  acquire,  and  which  I  design  to  learn,  because  I  should 
like  to  read  Klopstock  in  the  original.)  and  even  what  I  term 
a  lady  professor  of  embroidery,  which  Caroline  has  succeeded 
in  tormenting  mamma  to  let  her  have — cntrc  nous,  it  is  only 
because  she  has  taught  Annie  Grahame;  all  these,  my  dear 
Mary,  presented  a  most  formidable  array,  and  for  the  first 
month  I  did  not  choose  to  profit  by  their  instructions  in  the 
least.  I  gave  full  vent  to  all  the  dislike  I  felt  to  them.  I 
encouraged  indolence  to  a  degree  that  frequently  occasioned  a 
reproof  from  Miss  Harcourt.  I  could  not  bear  their  mode  of 
teaching ;  the  attention  so  many  things  required  was  in  my 
present  state  a  most  painful  exertion,  and  I  almost  made  an 
inward  determination  to  show  mamma  that  all  her  endeavors 
were  lost  on  me.  I  would  not  learn  when  every  tiling  was  so 
changed.  Do  not  throw  away  my  letter  in  despair  of  your 
friend,  dearest  Mary ;  only  read  to  the  end,  and  perhaps  my 
character  may  be  in  some  measure  redeemed.  There  was  a 
weight  on  my  spirits  I  could  not.  because  I  would  not.  remove 
I  became  ill-tempered  and  petulant  without  cause ;  before  papf 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  3 

find  mamma  I  tried  to  restrain  it,  but  did  not  always  succeed. 
Percy  and  Herbert  both  spoke  to  me  on  this  unwarrantable 
change  ;  and  I  think  almost  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  1  saw 
Percy  seriously  angry  with  me,  for  I  had  even  shown  my  irri- 
tation at  his  interference.  I  told  him  I  had  a  right  to  act  and 
feel  as  I  pleased.  Herbert  looked  sorry,  and  desisted  in  hid 
reasonings  when  he  found  I  would  not  listen.  Percy's  e  rider)  t 
irritation  and  the  reproaches  of  my  own  conscience  added  net 
a  little  to  my  uncomfortable  feelings,  as  you  may  suppose.  1 
looked  back  to  what  I  had  been  at  Oakwood,  and  the  contrapc 
of  my  past  and  present  self  really  gave  me  much  cause  for 
misery.  It  was  just  before  my  brothers  returned  to  college  I 
wrote  to  you  a  long,  very  long  letter,  in,  which  I  ^ave  more 
than  enough  vent  to  my  silly,  I  should  say,  sinful  feelings. 
Several  hours  I  had  employed  in  its  composition,  and  to  jbtain 
these,  neglected  my  exercises,  etc.,  for  my  masters,  and  caused 
more  tlu^n  one  for  several  days  to  make  a  formal  complaint  of 
my  indolence  and  carelessness  to  Miss  Harcourt.  Her  re- 
monstrances, I  am  ashamed  to  confess,  only  had  the  effect  of 
increasing  my  ill-temper.  Well ;  I  concluded  at  length  my 
epistle  to  you,  which,  had  you  received  it,  would  have  been  a 
trial  of  patience  indeed  ;  for  it  consisted  of  ten  or  twelve 
closely-written  pages,  in  which  I  had  so  magnified  my  feelings 
of  discontent  and  unhappiness,  that  any  one  must  have  fancied 
I  had  not  one  single  blessing  left.  I  was  folding  and  preparing 
to  seal  it,  when  mamma  entered  my  room.  I  must  tell  you 
that  as  yet  I  had  not  one  reproof  from  her  lips,  though  I  am 
quite  sure  I  deserved  it  long  before ;  I  used  to  see  her  look 
very  grieved  at  any  burst  of  petulance  from  me,  but  she  had 
never  spoken  on  the  subject.  I  almost  trembled  when  she 
appeared,  for  I  knew  that  morning  Miss  Harcourt  had  said  she 
must  inform  her  of  Mons.  Deville  and  Signer  llozzi's  continued 
complaints.  Without  entering  on  that  subject,  however,  sho 
sat  down  by  me,  and  with  one  of  her  own  sweet  smiles,  which 
reproached  me  a  great  deal  more  than  words,  she  asked  me  if 
I  really  were  going  to  seal  and  send  that  long  letter  of  con- 
fidence to  you  without  having  shown  or  told  any  part  of  it  to 
her.  She  might  well  ask.  dear  Mary,  for  I  had  never  written 
a  line  before  which  I  had  kept  from  her ;  but  my  conscience 
told  me  she  would  not,  could  not  approve  of  this,  and  therefore 
I  certainly  did  wish  I  could  have  sent  it  without  telling  her 
any  thing  about  it.  What  deceit,  too !  I  hear  you  exclaim. 
Yes,  dear  Mary ;  and  before  this  tale  of  shame  is  over,  you 


4  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

will  see  still  more  clearly  how  one  fault  makes  many.  I  did 
not  answer  her  question,  but  remained  sulkily  silent. 

u  Will  my  Emmeline  think  me  a  harsh  intruder  on  her  private 
thoughts,  if  I  say  I  cannot  let  this  letter  go  till  I  have  seen 
at  least  some  parts  of  its  contents?"  she  said  very  mildly,  but 
so  firmly  I  had  no  power  to  resist  her ;  and  when  she  asked  if 
t  would  not,  as  I  always  did.  read  her  some  portions,  I  answered 
pettishly,  if  she  read  any  she  might  as  well  read  all.  She 
looked  deeply  grieved,  and  my  heart  painfully  smote  me  the 
moment  the  words  were  said ;  but  I  was  too  proud  at  that 
moment  to  show  any  marks  of  contrition,  and  all  the  time  she 
was  reading  I  continued  working  myself  up  to  increased 
ill-humor. 

"Are  you  indeed  so  very  unhappy,  my 'dear  Emmeline?" 
were  the  only  words  mamma  said,  as  she  laid  down  the  last 
sheet  and  looked  in  my  face,  with  a  tear  trembling  in  her  eye. 
I  turned  away,  for  I  felt  too  irritated  and  cross  to  give  way  to 
the  emotion  I  always  feel  when  I  see  her  grieved,  and  I  \\as 
determined  not  to  answer.  '•  And  do  you  prefer,"  she  continu- 
ed, "  seeking  the  sympathy  of  a  young  girl  like  yourself  to  that 
of  a  mother,  who  has  always  endeavored  not  only  to  sympathize 
with,  but  to  soothe  the  sorrows  of  her  children  ?:>  Still  I  would 
not  answer,  and  she  added,  mildly,  '•  Do  you  not  think,  Emme- 
line, Mary  would  have  been  better  pleased  if  you  had  written 
to  her  rather  in  a  lighter  strain?  do  you  not  think,  if  you  were 
to  try  and  shake  off  these  painful  fancies,  you  could  write  an- 
other and  less  desponding  letter — one  that  I  might  give  you 
my  full  stnd  fr°e  permission  to  send,  which,  sorry  as  I  am  to 
say  it,  I  cannot  with  this?" 

Mild  as  were  her  words  and  manner,  the  import  of  what 
she  said  put  the  finishing  stroke  to  ray  ill-temper.  "  If  I  may 
not  write  as  I  like,  I  will  not  write  at  all."  I  passionately  ex- 
claimed, and  seizing  the  sheet  nearest  to  me  tore  it  asunder, 
and  would  have  done  the  same  with  the  rest,  had  not  mamma 
gently  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm.  uttering  my  name  in  an  accent 
of  surprise  and  sorrow;  my  irritable  and  sinful  feelings  found 
vent  in  a  most  violent  flood  of  tears. 

Will  you  not  think,  dearest  Mary,  I  am  writing  of  Caroline, 
and  not  of  myself?  does  it  not  resemble  the  sceres  of  my  sister's 
childhood  ?  Can  you  believe  that  this  is  an  Account  of  your 
Emmeline,  whose  sweetness  of  temper  and  gentleness  of  dispo- 
sition you  have  so  often  extolled  ?  But  it  was  I  who  thus  forgot 
myself— I,  who  once  believed  nothing  ever  could  make  me  pas- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  5 

eionate  or  angry;  and  in  one  minute  I  was  both — had  excited 
myself  till  I  became  so  even  against  my  nature,  and  with  whom? 
—even  my  mother,  my  kind,  devoted  mother,  who  has  ever 
done  so  much  for  me,  whom  in  my  childhood,  when  I  knew  her 
worth  much  less  than  I  do  now,  I  had  never  caused  to  shod  a 
tear.  Oh,  Mary,  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  felt  the  moment 
those  passionate  words  escaped  me.  I  may  truly  say  I  did  not 
cry  from  anger,  but  from  the  most  bitter,  the  most  painful  self- 
reproach.  I  think  her  usual  penetration  must  have  discovered 
this,  for  if  she  had  thought  my  tears  were  really  those  of  passion, 
she  would  not,  could  not  have  acted  as  she  did. 

She  drew  me  gently  to  her.  and  kissed  me  without  speak- 
ing. I  threw  my  arms  round  her  neck,  and  in  a  voice  almost 
choked  by  sobs,  implored  her  again  and  again  to  forgive  me ; 
that  I  did  not  mean  to  answer  her  so  disrespectfully — that  I 
knew  I  had  become  a  very  wicked  girl,  but  that  I  really  did 
feel  very  unhappy.  For  a  few  minutes  she  was  silent,  and  I 
could  see  was  struggling  to  suppress  the  tears  my  unusual  con- 
duct had  occasioned.  I  will  make  no  apology,  dearest  Mary, 
for  entering  on  such  minute  details;  for  I  know  how  you  love  my 
mother,  and  that  every  word  she  says  is  almost  as  precious  to  you 
as  to  her  own  children — quite  it  cannot  be  ;  and  I  give  you  this 
account  also,  that  you  may  know  me  as  I  am,  and  not  imagine 
I  am  so  free  from  faults  as  I  know  you  once  believed  me.  Oh, 
when  I  have  looked  back  on  that  day,  I  have  felt  so  painfully 
humiliated.  I  would  gladly  banish  the  recollection ;  but  it  is 
better  for  me  to  remember  it,  lest  I  should  fancy  myself  better 
than  I  am.  Every  word  she  said  in  that  gentle  and  persuasive 
tone  was  engraved  upon  my  heart,  even  as  she  spoke.  She 
easily  and  fully  convinced  me  of  my  sinfulness  in  thus  permit- 
ting imaginary  evils  to  make  me  so  miserable :  for  that  they  were 
but  imaginary  it  was  easy  to  discover.  Not  a  single  blessing 
could  I  say  I  had  lost.  All  I  loved  were  around  me,  in  health 
and  happiness — every  comfort  of  life  was  the  same  ;  and  could 
it  be  possible,  mamma  said,  that  the  mere  departure  from  a 
favorite  residence,  and  only  for  a  few  months,  could  render  me 
so  completely  blind  to  the  many  blessings  my  Heavenly  Father 
had  scattered  around  me?  As  she  spoke,  a  film  appeared  re- 
moved from  my  eyes,  and  the  enormity  of  my  conduct  stood  for 
the  first  time  in  its  true  colors  before  me.  I  saw — I  knew  how 
sinful  I  had  been  ;  and  bitterly  I  regretted  that  I  had  not  con 
'fessed  every  feeling  to  mamma,  instead  of  hiding  them,  as  1 
had  done,  in  my  OWD  heart,  and  brooding  on  them  till  it  became 


6  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

a  kind  of  pleasure  to  do  so.  and  till  fancied  evils  produced 
ones.  I  wept  bitterly  while  she  spoke,  for  to  find  how  complete- 
ly I  had  created  misery  for  myself  was  no  agreeable  matter  (>f 
reflection,  and  my  remorse  was  heightened  when  mamma  said, 
"  You  have  disappointed  us  not  a  little,  my  dear  Emiueline;  for 
I  will  no  longer  conceal  from  you,  that  the  little  tour  we  took 
on  our  way  to  London  was  originally  planned  by  your  father 
and  myself,  to  reconcile  you  to  a  change  of  residence.  We  saw 
how  much  you  regretted  leaving  Oakwood  ;  nor  did  we  wonder 
at  it,  for  such  feelings  were  most  natural  to  one  of  your  dispo- 
sition ;  and  therefore,  instead  of  travelling  direct,  and  suddenly 
changing  the  scenes  of  our  beautiful  Devinshire  for  the  con- 
finement of  this  huge  city,  we  hoped  by  visiting  various  places, 
and  giving  you  new  objects  of  reflection,  to  lessen  your  regret, 
and  make  the  change  of  residence  less  painfully  abrupt."  As 
well  as  I  could,  I  expressed  my  sorrow  and  repentance,  and 
promised  to  use  every  endeavor  to  atone  for  the  past,  and  be- 
come all  that  she  and  papa  wished  me. 

"  I  believe  you,  my  own  Emmeline,"  my  kind  mother  said, 
as  she  again  kissed  me,  and  her  voice  was  no  longer  so  sorrow- 
fully grave  as  it  had  been  at  first.  "  I  am  sure,  now  you  knew 
all  the  pain  you  were  inflicting  on  both  your  parents,  every  effort 
will  be  put  in  force  to  remove  it."  Did  I  deserve  this  speech, 
dear  Mary  ?  I  do  not  think  I  did  ;  for  I  often  saw  by  mamma's 
countenance  I  had  grieved  her,  and  yet  made  no  effort  to  con- 
trol myself,  and  so  I  told  her.  She  smiled  her  own  sweet, 
dear  smile  of  approbation,  and  thanking  me  for  any  candor, 
said — 

"  If  I  say  that  by  indulging  in  these  gloomy  fancies  and 
appearing  discontented,  and  repining  when  so  many  blessings 
are  around  you,  my  Emmeline  will  be  doing  her  mother  a  real 
injury,  by  rendering  my  character  questionable,  not  only  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  bnt  of  my  most  valued  friends,  will  she  not 
do  all  in  her  power  to  become  her  own  light-hearted  self  again  ?" 

"  Injuring  your  character,  dearest  mother  !"  I  exclaimed, 
with  much  surprise  ;  "  in  what  manner?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,  my  love,"  she  replied  ;  '•  there  are  many/ 
not  only  of  my  acquaintances,  but  my  friends,  those  whose 
opinions  T  really  value,  who  believe  I  have  been  acting  very 
wrongly  all  these  years,  in  never  having  permitted  you  and 
Caroline  to  visit  London.  They  think  by  tliis  strict  retirement 
1  have  quite  unfitted  you  both  for  the  station  your  rank  demands 
you  should  fill.  That  by  constantly  living  alone  with  us,  and 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.   '  7 

never  mingling  in  society,  you  have  imbibed  notions  that,  to 
say  the  least,  may  be  old-fashioned  and  romantic,  and  which 
will  make  you  both  feel  uncomfortable  when  you  are  introduced 
in  London.  These  fears  never  entered  my  mind;  I  wished 
you  to  receive  ideas  that  were  somewhat  different  to  the 
generality  of  Fashion's  dictates,  and  I  did  not  doubt  but  that 
the  uncomfortable  feeling,  against  which  the  letters  of  my 
friends  often  warned  me.  would  very  quickly  be  removed.  But 
ruice  we  have  been  here — I  do  not  wish  to  grieve  you  more, 
ny  dear  Kmmeline — I  muat  confess  your  conduct  has  been 
productive  to  me  of  the  most  painful  self-reproach.  I  thought, 
indeed,  my  friends  were  right,  and  that  for  years  I  had  been 
acting  on  an  injudicious  plan,  and  that  instead  of  ray  measures 
tending  to  future  happiness,  they  were  only  -productive  of  paia 
and  misery,  which,  had  I  done  as  other  mothers  of  iny  station, 
might  have  been  avoided." 

-  Oh !  do  not,  pray  do  not  think  so."  I  exclaimed,  for  she 
had  spoken  so  sorrowfully,  I  could  not  bear  it.  ';I  formed  my 
own  misery,  dearest  mother  ;  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

'•You  think  so  now,  my  love."  she  answered,  with  her  usual 
fondness;  ';but  if  iry  friends  see  you  gloomy  and  sad,  and 
evidently  discontented,  longing  for  pleasures  which  are  not 
oft'ered  to  you  in  London,  only  dwelling  on  visions  of  the  past, 
and  notions  tending  to  the  indulgence  of  romance,  what  will 
they  think?  will  not  my  judgment  be  called  in  question  ?  And 
more,  they  know  how  very  much  I  prefer  a  country  to  a  London 
life,  domestic  pleasures,  to  those  of  society ;  and  they  may 
imagine,  and  with  some  probability,  that  to  indulge  my  selfish 
wishes.  I  have  disregarded  the  real  interests  of  my  children." 

••  They  cannot,  they  will  not  think  so,"  I  passionately  said 
';  They  can  never  have  known  you,  who  form  such  conclusions." 
Would  you  not  have  agreed  with  me,  dear  Mary,  and  can  you 
not  fancy  the  wretchedness  mamma's  words  inflicted? 

••  My  love,"  she  replied,  with  a  smile,  "  they  will  not  fancy 
they  do  not  know  me  ;  they  will  rather  imagine  they  must  have 
been  deceived  in  their  opinion  ;  that  I  am  not  what  I  may  have 
appeared  to  them  some  few  years  ago.  The  character  of  r 
aiother,  my  Emmeline,  is  frequently  judged  of  by  the  conduct 
)f  her  children  ;  and  such  conclusions  are  generally  correct, 
t.hough,  of  course,  as  there  are  exceptions  to  every  rule,  there 
are  to  this,  and  many  a  mother  may  have  been  unjustly  in- 
jured in  the  estimation  of  the  world,  by  the  thoughtless  01 
criminal  conduct  of  a  wilful  and  disobedient  child.  I  hav« 


8  THS  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

been  so  completely  a  stranger  to  London  society  the  last  six- 
teen years,  that  my  character  and  conduct  depend  more  upon 
you  and  Caroline  to  be  raised  or  lowered  in  the  estimation  ot 
my  friends  and  also  .of  the  world,  than  on  any  of  the  young 
people  with  whom  you  may  mingle.  On  which,  then,  will 
my  Emmeline  decide. — to  indulge  in  these  gloomy  fancies, 
and  render  herself  ill  both  in  health  and  temper,  as  well  as 
exposing  her  mother  to  censure  and  suspicion ;  or  will  sher 
spite  of  the  exertion  and  pain  it  may  occasion,  shake  off  this 
lethargy,  recall  all  her  natural  animation  and  cheerfulness, 
and  with  her  own  bright  smile  restore  gladness  to  the  hearts 
of  her  parents  ?" 

I  could  not  speak  in  answer  to  this  appeal,  dear  Mary,  but 
I  clung  weeping  to  mamma's  neck.  I  never  till  that  in  .ment 
knew  all  my  responsibility,  how  much  depended  on  uiy  con- 
duct ;  but  at  that  moment  I  inwardly  vowed  that  never,  never 
should  my  conduct  injure  that  dear  devoted  mother,  who 
endeavored  so  fondly  to  soothe  my  grief,  and  che^k  my  bitter 
tears ;  who  had  done  so  much  for  me,  who  had  devoted  herself 
so  completely  to  her  children.  Mentally  I  resolved  that  noth- 
ing should  be  wanting  on  my  part  to  render  her  character  as 
exalted  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  as  it  was  in  mine.  I  could 
not  bear  to  think  how  ungratefully  I  had  acted,  and  I  cried 
till  I  made  my  head  and  mamma's  heart  ache  ;  but  I  could  not 
long  resist  her  fond  caresses,  her  encouraging  words,  and  before 
she  left  me  I  could  even  smile. 

"And  what  am  I  to  say,"  she  said,  with  her  usual  playful- 
ness, "  of  the  sad  complaints  that  I  have  received  the  last  few 
days  from  Miss  Harcourt,  that  she  does  not  know  what  has 
come  to  you,  from  Mons.  Deville  and  Signor  Ilozzi  ?  Now 
what  am  I  to  say  or  to  do  to  prove  that  this  Mademoiselle  Em- 
meline does  like  Italian,  and  is  not  ill.  as  our  polite  pro- 
fessors fancy?  must  I  lecture  as  I  did  when  she  was  an  idle 
little  girl,  and  liked  her  play  better  than  her  studies?  Sup- 
pose these  gentlemen  are  asked,  which  in  all  probability  tliey 
certainly  are,  what  sort  of  pupils  Mrs.  Hamilton's  daughters 
are  ;  they  ought  to  be  something  out  of  the  way,  for  we  hear  she 
has  instructed  them  principally  herself.  What  answer  will  be 
given,  what  conclusions  drawn,  if  you  do  not  exert  yourself 
and  prove  that  you  can  learn  as  well,  when  you  like,  as  your 
sister,  arid  even  quicker  than  your  cousin  ?" 

I  felt  so  ashamed,  dearest  Mary,  that  I  concealed  my  face 
on  her  shoulder,  and  would  not  even  look  up  to  promise 


HIE  MOTHER'S  REco.MrEXSE.  9 

amendment  for  I  felt  I  was  not  certain  of  myself;  but  when 
mamma  spoke  of  my  letter  to  you.  and  asked  me  if  I  still  wished 
to  send  it.  or  if  I  would  not  write  another,  I  made  a  desperate 
effort,  and  answered  as  well  as  I  could — 

••  I  will  not  write  again  to  Mary,  dear  mamma,  till  I  have 
conquered  all  these  silly  and  sinful  feelings,  and  can  write  as 
usual ;  and  to  be  quite  sure  of  myself,  that  I  may  not  break 
my  resolution,  I  promise  you  that  for  six  months  I  will  nol 
give  myself  the  pleasure  of  addressing  her,  and  if  even  at  the 
end  of  that  time  you  do  not  think  I  have  sufficiently  recovered 
my  senses,  which  certainly  appear  to  have  deserted  me,  you 
shall  increase  at  your  will  my  time  of  probation  ;  I  deserve 
pome  privation  for  my  ungrateful  conduct,  and  the  not  writing 
to  Mary  now  is  the  greatest  I  can  think  of."  I  tried  to  ap- 
pear very  heroic  as  I  made  this  speech,  but  with  all  my  efforts 
I  completely  failed.  Mamma  looked  at  me  a  moment  in  sur- 
prise, but  then,  with  more  than  usual  fondness,  she  strained 
me  to  her  heart,  and  I  felt  a  tear  fall  on  my  cheek. 

"  My  own  sweet  child,  my  darling  Emmeline  !"  she  ex 
claimed,  ''  I  did  not  expect  this  offered  sacrifice,  but  I  will 
accept  it,  my  own  love,  and  let  its  pain  be  soothed  to  your 
affectionate  heart  by  the  knowledge  that  in  making  it,  you 
have  given  me  the  purest,  most  delicious  sense  of  pleasure 
you  coud  bestow.  We  will  not  say  six  months,"  she  added, 
more  playfully,  '-we  will  see  what  the  middle  or  end  of 
January  brings.  You  will  then  still  have  nearly  four  months 
to  redeem  your  character.  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  that 
even  before  that  period  my  Emmeline  will  be  herself."  Oh, 
Mary,  I  felt  so  very  happy  as  she  thus  spoke,  that  I  thought 
I  must  find  it  very  easy  to  conquer  myself,  but  I  was  mistaken, 
painfully  mistaken;  I  had  encouraged  despondency  and  gloom 
for  so  long  a  period,  that  it  required  every  exertion,  in  the 
very  least,  to  subdue  it.  I  had  chosen  to  waste  my  time,  and 
be  inattentive  to  all  the  means  of  improvement  which  were 
offered  me.  and  to  command  my  attention  sufficiently  to  re- 
gain the  good  opinion  of  our  sage  professors  was  most  dis- 
agreeably difficult :  but  I  was  no  longer  afraid  to  encounter 
mamma's  sorrowful  or  reproving  glance,  as  I  had  been  before, 
and  her  fond  encouragement  and  the  marks  of  approval  which 
both  she  and  papa  bestowed,  when  I  could  not  but  feel  I  had 
done  little  to  deserve  them,  lightened  the  labor  of  my  task,  and 
by  causing  me  to  wish  earnestly  to  deserve  their  kindness,  in 
creased  my  efforts  ;  and  at  length,  dearest  Mary,  these  miser- 


10  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

able  feelings  so  completely  departed  from  me,  that  I  was  sur 
prised  to  perceive  how  very  nearly  I  could  be  as  happy  in  Lon- 
don as  at  dear  Oakwood  ;  quite  as  happy  is  iniposible.  because 
I  feel  more  and  more  how  very  much  I  prefer  a  tjuiet  domestic 
life  in  the  country  to  London  and  society.  You  will  perhaps 
smile,  as  mamma  does,  and  say  I  am  not  introduced  yet,  and 
then  I  may  change  my  mind  ;  but  I  do  not  think  I  shall.  She 
prefers  the  country,  so  it  will  not  be  very  strange  if  I  should; 
but  when  I  see  how  completely,  and  yet  how  cheerfully  she  haa 
given  up  her  favorite  residence  and  employments,  for  the  inter- 
ists  and  happiness  of  her  children,  I  feel  ashamed  at  the  egre- 
rious  selfishness  which  has  been  mine.  Oh,  Mary,  when  shall 
[  ever  be  like  mamma  ?  when  can  I  ever  be  worthy  of  half, 
flay,  one  quarter  of  that  respectful  admiration  which  is  be- 
dtowed  upon  her,  even  by  those  whose  principles  and  conduct 
are  directly  opposite  ? 

In  her  conversations  with  me  she  had  spoken  more  of  the 
opinion  of  the  world  than  she  ever  did  at  Oakwood.  and  one 
uay  venturing  to  notice  it,  as  being  contrary  to  that  which 
Mie  so  carefully  instilled,  that  to  Grod  and  our  conscience  we 
snould  alone  be  answerable  for  our  conduct,  she  answered  with 
a  smile — 

"  1  have  been  long  expecting  this  remark,  my  dear  Emme- 
line.  and  I  have  endeavored,  to  be  prepared  with  an  answer. 
To  our  Father  in  Heaven  and  to  our  own  conscience  we  must 
still  look  for  our  guide  in  life ;  that  not  in  one  thing  must  we 
transarress  the  love  and  duty  we  owe  our  Maker,  or  disregard 
the  warning  or  reproaches  of  our  .hearts  ;  but  still,  mingling 
in  the  world  as  it  is  undoubtedly  our  duty  to  do — for  as  I  have 
often  told  you,  we  do  not  live  for  ourselves,  but  for  others — 
we  must  have  due  regard  in  minor  things  to  the  opinions  of 
those  with  whom  we  associate.  When  a  woman  has  once  set 
up  for  an  Independent,  wnen,  scorning  the  opinion  of  the 
world,  she  walks  forth  conscious  in  her  own  integrity  and  vir- 
tue, though  no  stain  may  have  sullied  her  conduct  or  name, 
though  she  n.ay  be  innately  amiable  and  good,  yet  every  gen- 
tle female  will  shrink  from  such  a  character,  and  tremble  lest 
they  should  become  like  her.  Women  are  dependent  beings ; 
in  Infinite  Wisdom  it  was  thus  ordained,  and  why  should  we 
endeavor  to  be  otherwise  ?  When  once  we  set  up  a  standard 
for  ourselves,  we  have  thrown  aside  our  surest  safeguard,  and 
exposed  ourselves  to  censure  and  suspicion.  When  the  ordi- 
nances of  society  do  not  interfere  with  the  higher  principle  oi 


MOTHER'S  RECO.MPEXSE.  II 

our  lives,  they  should  be  obeyed,  and  in  doing  so  wo  are  fol- 
lowing up  the  dictates  of  true  religion,  by  doing  our  duty  as 
members  of  a  community,  as  children  of  one  common  Father, 
which,  if  we  stand  selfishly  apart,  we  cannot  do.  I  speak  mono 
of  the  opinion  of  the  world,"  mamma  then  continued,  "  to  you 
than  cither  to  your  sister  or  3Tour  cousin.  Caroline  I  would 
rather  check  in  her  perhaps  too  great  regard  for  admiration  ; 
and  Ellen  is  at  present  too  young,  and  in  much  too  delicate 
health,  to  go  out  with  me  as  much  as  you  will,  even  before  you 
are  what  is  termed  introduced:  besides  which,  her  natural 
reserve  and  timidity  banish  all  fears  on  that  account  for  her. 
13ut  for  you,  Emmeline.  I  do  sometimes  feel  fearful  that,  in  the 
indulgence  of  uncontrolled  feeling,  you  will  forget  you  are  not 
quite  sucli  an  independent  being  as  you  were  at  Oakwood. 
Many  of  your  ideas  are  quite  contrary  to  those  generally  en- 
tertained by  several  with  whom  you  may  associate ;  and  I 
sometimes  dread  that  by  their  unchecked  expression,  or  the 
avowed  determination  never  to  think  as  your  companions  do — 
that  you  hate  such  confined  ideas,  or  some  such  thing,  which," 
and  she  smiled,  '-if  I  know  my  Emmeline  rightly,  is  not  at  all 
unlikely — you  may  be  exposing  yourself  to  suspicion  and  dis- 
like. I  feel  quite  sure  you  never  will  wilfully  offend,  or  that 
you  will  really  deserve  such  censure ;  all  I  wish  is,  that  you 
will  be  a  little  more  guarded  and  controlled  in  your  intercourse 
with  strangers  here,  than  you  ever  were  in  the  happy  halls  of 
Oakwood." 

I  did  not  answer,  my  dear  Mary ;  for  I  do  not  know  why, 
but  there  was  something  in  her  words  that  caused  my  eyes  to 
fill  with  tears.  I  think  it  was  because  it  seemed  such  a  pain- 
ful task  to  maintain  such  a  continued  control  over  my  words 
and  feelings,  and  mamma  as  usual  divined  the  cause  of  my 
sadness  even  before  I  could  define  it  myself 

'•  Du  not  look  so  very  sad.  my  sweet  girl,"  she  said  so  fond- 
ly, that  like  a  simpleton  I  cried  the  more.  ':  I  do  not  wish  to 
see  you  changed,  however  different  you  may  be  to  others.  I  do 
not  wish  to  chill  one  feeling  in  this  affectionate  little  heart, 
nor  check  one  burst  of  enthusiasm.  Your  character  has  been 
and  is  too  great  a  source  of  unalloyed  pleasure  to  your  mother, 
my  Emmeliie  ;  it  would  be  misery  indeed  to  see  it  in  anyway 
changed,  though  I  do  preach  control  so  very  much,"  she  conti- 
nued, more  playfully,  but  with  that  same  fond  affection  which, 
while  it  made  me  cry,  appeared  to  soothe  every  painful  emo- 
tion. ';  We  shall  not  always  be  in  society,  Emmeline ;  coma 


12  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

to  me  as  of  old,  and  tell  me  every  thought  and  feeling,  and  all 
that  has  given  you  pain  or  pleasure.  With  me,  dearest,  there 
must  be  no  coutrol,  no  reserve  ;  if  there  be  the  least  appear- 
ance of  either,  you  will  inflict  more  pain  on  my  heart  than 
from  your  infancy  you  have  ever  done,  for  I  shall  think  my 
own  counsels  have  alienated  from  me  the  confidence  of  my 
child." 

I  never  shall  forget  the  impressive  sadness  with  which  she 
spoke  these  words,  dearest  Mary,  and  clinging  to  her,  I  de- 
clared and  with  truth,  as  long  as  I  night  speak  and  think  and 
feel  without  control  when  with  her,  I  would  be  all,  all  she 
wished  in  society — that  I  never  could  be  unhappy, — and  to  be 
reserved  with  her,  I  felt  sure  I  never,  never  could.  She  em- 
braced me  with  the  utmost  tenderness,  and  banished  all  my 
remaining  sadness  by  the  earnest  assurance  that  she  believed 
me. 

What  a -long  letter  have  I  written  to  you.  my  dearest 
friend;  will  you  not  say  I  have  atoned  for  my  long  silence? 
If  I  have  not  atoned  to  you,  I  have  at  least  gratified  myself; 
for  you  know  not  how  very  often  I  longed,  after  such  conver- 
sations as  I  have  recounted,  to  sit  down  and  write  them  all  to 
you,  as  I  had  promised,  when  I  could  no  longer  tell  in  speech 
all  my  kind  mother's  instructions. 

I  do  not  make  any  apology  for  writing  so  much  of  her  and 
myself,  for  I  know  to  you  it  is  unnecessary.  I  tried  to  write 
all  she  said,  that  you  may  benefit  by  it  likewise,  and  in  doing 
so  I  assure  you  I  give  you  the  sincerest  proof  of  my  aifection  ; 
for  to  no  one  but  my  own  Mary  have  I  thus  related  the  pre- 
cious conversations  I  had  alone  with  mamma.  I  know  no  one 
but  you  whom  I  deem  worthy  of  them.  How  I  wish  in  return 
you  could  solve  a  riddle  for  me.  Why  do  I  fear  mamma  so 
much,  when  I  love  her  so  very  dearly  ?  When  I  do  or  even 
think  any  thing  that  my  conscience  tells  me  is  wrong,  or  at 
least  not  right,  I  absolutely  tremble  when  I  meet  her  eye, 
though  she  may  know  nothing  for  which  to  condemn  me.  I 
have  never  heard  her  voice  in  anger,  but  its  sorrowful  tones 
are  far  more  terrible.  I  think  sometimes  if  I  had  been  in 
Ellen's  place  eighteen  months  ago,  I  should  have  been  as  ill 
from  fear  alone,  as  she  was  from  a  variety  of  emotions,  poor 
girl.  Yet  why  should  I  feel  thus?  Caroline  does  not  even 
understand  me  when  I  speak  of  such  an  emotion.  She  says 
phe  is  always  very  sorry  when  she  has  displeased  mamma;  but 
fjar  is  to  her  unknown — we  two  certainly  are  complete  oppo 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  13 

aites.  I  think  Ellen's  character  resembles  mine  much  more 
than  my  sister's  does.  But  you  will  like  to  know  how  my  time 
of  probation  is  thus  shortened.  For  I  should  have  kept  my 
resolution  arid  waited  the  six  months,  pain  as  it  was,  but  one 
day  about  a  week  ago,  mamma  chanced  to  enter  our  study  at 
the  very  instant  that  the  poor  man  who  so  politely  believed 
Mademoiselle  Emmeline  was  too  ill  to  appreciate  his  lessona 
•svu.s  praising  me  up  to  the  skies  for  my  progress ;  that  same 
day  Signer  llozzi  had  informed  mamma,  with  all  the  enthusiasm 
of  iiis  nation,  that  he  was  delighted  to  teach  a  young  lady  who 
took  such  pleasure  in  the  study  of  poetry,  and  so  capable  ot 
appreciating  the  beauties  of  the  Italian  poets.  "  In  truth, 
madam,"  he  said.  ';  she  should  be  a  poet  herself,  and  the  Tem- 
ple of  the  Muses  graced  with  her  presence."  There's  fo^  you, 
Mary  !  But  jokes  apart,  I  do  love  Italian  ;  it  is,  it  must  be  the 
natural  language  of  poetry;  the  sentiments  are  so  exquisitely 
lovely,  the  language,  the  words,  as  if  framed  to  receive  them — 
music  dwells  in  every  line.  Petrarch,  Tasso,  Dante,  all  are 
open  to  me  now,  and  I  luxuriate  even  in  the  anticipation  of  the 
last. — but  now  I  am  digressing.  That  night  mamma  followed 
me  to  my  room  as  I  retired  to  bed,  and  smiling,  almost  laugh- 
ing, at  the  half  terror  my  countenance  expressed,  for  I  fancied 
she  had  come  to  reprove  the  wild  spirits  I  had  indulged  in 
throughout  the  day,  she  said,  "  Is  not  this  little  head  half 
turned  with  the  flattery  it  has  received  to-day  ?" 

•'  .No,"  I  instantly  replied.  '•  It  is  only  the  approbation  of 
one  or  two  that  can  put  me  in  any  danger  of  such  a  misfor- 
tune " 

';  Indeed,"  she  answered,  again  smiling  ;  "  I  fancied  it  was 
the  fine  speeches  you  had  been  hearing  to-day  that  had  excited 
such  high  spirits,  but  I  am  glad  it  is  not ;  otherwise,  I  might 
have  hesitated  to  express  what  I  came  here  to  do — my  appro- 
bation of  my  Emmeline's  conduct  the  last  few  months." 

1  felt  my  color  rising  to  my  very  temples,  dear  Mary,  for  I 
did  not  expect  this,  but  I  endeavored  to  conceal  all  I  felt  by 
seizing  her  hand,  and  imploring  her.  in  a  serio-comic,  semi- 
tragic  tone,  not  to  praise  me,  for  she  and  papa  were  the  two 
whose  praises  would  have  the  effect  on^ne  she  feared. 

'•  But  you  must  endeavor  to  keep  your  head  steady  now,** 
she  continued,  ;;  because  papa  sends  a  packet  to  Oakwood  next 
week,  and  a  long  letter  for  Mary  from  my  Emmeline  must 
accompany  it;  her  patience,  I  think,  must  be  very  nearly  ex- 
hausted, and  I  know  if  you  once  begin  to  write,  a  frank  will 


14  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

not  eon/ain  all  you  will  have  to  say,  will  it?"  she  added,  witt 
an  arch  but  such  a  dear  smile. 

All  my  high  spirits  seemed  for  the  moment  to  desert  me. 
and  I  could  not  answer  her,  except  to  cover  her  hand  with 
kisses.  I  have  told  you  what  she  said  in  the  way  of  reproof 
and  advice,  my  dear  Mary,  but  I  cannot  coolly  write  all  she 
said  as  encouragement  arid  praise ;  it  was  much  more  than  I 
deserved,  and  all.  therefore,  that  I  can  do,  is  to  continue  my 
endeavors  to  feel  one  day  rather  more  to  merit  it.  I  have 
risen  every  morning  an  hour  earlier,  that  I  might  tell  you  all 
I  wished  without  encroaching  on  my  allotted  hours  of  study; 
for  I  hope  you  will  not  imagine  I  have  written  all  this  in  one 
or  two,  or  even  three  sittings;  and  now  do  I  not  deserve  a  let- 
ter almost  as  long  from  you?  If  you  do  not  thus  reward  me, 
dread  my  vengeance,  and  write  soon,  for  I  long  to  have  a  letter 
from  you  ;  of  you  I  have  heard  often — but  of  and  from,  though 
they  may  be  both  brothers  of  the  family  of  the  prepositions, 
are  very  different  in  meaning.  I  have  not  written  one  word  of 
Caroline  or  Ellen.  Am  I  not  incurably  egotistical?  The 
former  declares  she  is  sure  you  will  'jave  no  time  to  read  a 
letter  from  her,  with  such  a  volume  as  mine,  and  Ellen  says 
she  has  no  time  by  this  opportunity.  1  told  her  she  ought  to 
get  up  as  I  did.  she  blushed,  looked  confused  enough  to  awa- 
ken my  attention,  and  then  said  she  supposed  she  was  too  lazy  ; 
and  now  I  really  must  say  farewell.  Mind  you  write  all  con- 
cerning yourself  and  your  dear  mother,  to  whom  present  my 
very  loving  respects,  and  as  for  yourself,  dear  Mary,  let  this 
long  letter  prove  the  sincere  aifection  and  perfect  confidence 
of  your  giddy  friend,  EMMELINE 

P.S. — Noyoung  lady  can  write  without  a  postscript.  Mamma 
has  absolutely  had  the  patience  to  read  through  my  letter,  and 
except  that  she  said  so  much  of  her  was  certainly  needless,  she 
approves  of  it  almost  as  much  as  she  disapproved  of  my  other, 
which  she  has  just  compelled  me  to  read.  What  a  tissue  of 
absuidity  it  contained, — worse,  it  is  sinful.  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  burning  it,  and  I  hope  and  trust  all  my  silly  repi- 

nings  are  burnt  with  it.  Once  more,  adieu.  E.  11. 

• 

From  Mrs.  Hamilton  to  Miss  Grcville. 

I  cannot,  my  dear  Mary,  suffer  Emmeline's  long  letter  to 
be  forwarded  to  you  without  a  few  lines  from  me,  to  remove 
all  lingering  fears  which  you  may  perhaps  have  had,  that  I 
do  not  approve  of  your  correspondence.  Believe  me,  my 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  13 

dear  girl,  that  to  see  you  the  chosen  friend  of  my  giddy  but 
warm-hearted  Ennneline  is  still,  as  it  has  ever  been  from  your 
childhood,  a  source  of  real  pleasure  both  to  Mr.  Hamilton 
and  myself.  Female  friendships  are  I  know,  often  regarded 
with  contempt,  not  only  by  men,  but  frequently  by  the  sterner 
principles  of  our  own  sex ;  they  are  deemed  connections  of 
folly ;  that  the  long  letters  which  pass  between  young  ladies 
set  down  by  the  world  as  intimate  friends,  are  but  relations 
of  all  the  petty  incidents  they  may  hear  or  see.  Such  letters 
are  also  considered  tending  to  weaken  the  mind  and  produce 
false  sensibility,  by  the  terms  of  affection  they  force  into  their 
service — the  magnified  expression  of  momentary  and  fleeting 
emotions.  That  such  may  sometimes  be  the  ^enor  of  some 
young  people's  correspondence,  I  do  not  pretend  to  deny,  and 
when  that  is  the  case,  and  such  letters  are  treasured  up  in 
secret  and  requested  to  be  burnt,  lest  any  eyes  save  those  for 
whom  they  are  intended  should  chance  to  encounter  them, 
then,  indeed,  I  too  might  disapprove  of  similar  intimacies, 
and  it  was  to  prevent  this  I  would  not  permit  Emmeline  to 
send  the  first  letter  to  which  she  has  alluded.  Every  feeling 
was  magnified  and  distorted,  till  you  must  have  fancied — had 
tiot  the  real  cause  been  told — that  some  very  serious  evil  had 
happened,  or  was  impending  over  her.  I  did  not  in  the  least 
doubt  but  that  you  would  have  used  all  your  influence  to  com- 
bat with  and  conquer  this  sinful  repining;  but  still  I  thought 
your  very  replies  might  have  called  forth  renewed  ebullitions 
of  sensibility,  and  thus  in  the  frame  of  mind  which  she  was  then 
indulging,  your  hinted  reproaches,  however  gentle,  might  have 
been  turned  and  twisted  into  a  decay  of  friendship  or  some 
such  display  of  sensitiveness,  which  would  certainly  have  re- 
moved your  affection  and  injured  herself.  When,  therefore, 
ehe  so  frankly  acknowledged  her  error,  and  offered  to  sacrifice 
the  pleasure  I  knew  it  was  to  write  to  you,  I  accepted  it,  spito 
uf  the  pain  which  I  saw  she  felt,  and  which  to  inflict  on  her. 
you  may  believe  gave  her,  and  now  I  certainly  feel  rewarded 
for  all  the  self-denial  we  both  practised.  Emmeline  is  again 
*he  same  happy  girl  she  was  at  Oakwood,  although  I  can  per- 
ceive there  is  nothing,  or  at  best  but  very  little  here,  that  can 
compensate  for  the  rural  pleasures  she  has  left.  I  do  not  won- 
der at  this,  for  in  such  feelings  I  trace  those  which,  from  my 
girlhood,  were  my  own.  I  hope,  therefore,  my  dear  young 
friend,  that  nothing  in  future  will  check  your  intercourse  with 
Emmeline,  but  that  your  correspondence  may  long  continue  a 


16  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE 

source  of  pleasure  to  both  of  you.  I  love  to  see  the  perfect 
confidence  with  which  Etnmeline  has  written,  it  proves  she  re- 
gards you  as  you  deserve  to  be  regarded,  as  indeed  her  friend, 
not  her  companion  in  frivolity  and  sentiment ;  and  believe  me, 
you  may  thus  have  it  in  your  power  to  improve  and  strengthen 
her  perhaps  rather  too  yielding  character.  The  manner  in 
which,  through  the  mercy  of  our  compassionate  God.  you  have 
b^en  enabled,  young  as  you  are,  to  bear  your  trials,  which 
are  indeed  severe,  has  inspired  her  with  a  respect  for  your 
character,  which  the  trifling  difference  in  your  ages  might 
otherwise  have  prevented,  and  therefore  your  letters  will  be 
received  with  more  than  ordinary  interest,  and  your  good  ex- 
ample, my  dear  girl,  may  do  much  towards  teaching  her  to  bear 
those  evils  of  life  from  which  we  cannot  expect  her  to  be  ex- 
empt, with  the  same  patient  resignation  that  characterizes  you. 
Write  to  her,  therefore,  as  often  as  you  feel  inclined,  and  do 
not,  I  beg,  suppress  the  thoughts  her  candid  letter  may  have 
produced.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  read  her  confession  charitably, 
for  I  know  you  will,  and  I  assure  you  she  has  completely  re- 
deemed her  fault.  The  struggle  was  a  very  severe  one  to  sub- 
due the  depression  she  had  encouraged  so  long;  but  she  has 
nobly  conquered,  and  I  do  not  fear  such  feelings  of  discontent 
ever  again  obtaining  too  great  an  ascendency. 

Tell  your  dear  mother,  with  my  affectionate  love,  that  she 
will  be  pleased  to  hear  Ellen's  health  is  improving,  and  has 
not  as  yet  suffered  in  the  least  from  the  winter  or  the  more  con- 
fined air  of  London,  which  I  almost  dreaded  might  be  baneful 
to  one  so  delicate  as  she  was  when  we  left  Oakwood.  I  think 
our  little  tour  did  her  much  good,  though  the  idea  of  the  exer- 
tion at  first  appeared  painful.  She  is  ever  cheerful,  though  I 
sometimes  wish  she  would  be  more  lively,  and  cannot  help  fan- 
cying, notwithstanding  her  melancholy  as  a  child  was  remarka- 
ble, that  her  sufferings  both  bodily  and  mental,  the  last  eigh- 
teen months  have  made  her  the  very  pensive  character  she  is. 
I  had  hoped  before  that  unfortunate  affair  she  was  becoming  as 
animated  and  light  hearted  as  my  Emmeline,  but  as  that  can- 
not be,  I  endeavor  to  be  thankful  for  the  health  and  quiet,  and. 
I  trust,  happiness  she  now  enjoys.  We  receive,  every  opportu- 
nity, from  Edward  very  satisfactory  and  pleasing  letters, 
which,  as  you  will  believe,  tend  not  a  little  to  lessen  the  anxi- 
ety of  both  his  sister  and  myself.  His  new  captain  is  a  far 
sterner  character  and  even  more  rigid  in  discipline  than  was  Sir 
Edward  Manly  ;  but  our  young  sailor  writes  that  this  is  rather 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  17 

a  source  of  pleasure  to  him,  for  it  will  be  the  greater  merit  to 
win  bis  regard,  which  he  has  resolved  to  use  every  endeavor  to 
maintain. 

I  must  not  forget,  in  thus  writing  of  my  family,  to  mention 
that  Herbert  never  writes  home  without  inquiring  after  his  fa- 
vorite Mary,  and  if  his  sisters  do  not  answer  such  queries  very 
particularly,  they  are  sure  in  the  next  letter  to  obtain  as  severe 
a  reproach  as  can  flow  from  his  pen.  Will  you  not  return  such 
little  tokens  of  remembrance,  my  dear  girl !  Herbert  has  only 
lately  changed  the  term  by  which  in  his  boyhood  he  has  so 
often  spoken  of  you — his  sister  Mary  ;  and  surely  friends  in 
such  early  childhood  may  continue  so  in  youth.  The  season 
has  not.  and  will  not  yet  commence  here.  Caroline  is  antici- 
pating it  with  a  deliglit  which  I  could  wish  less  violent.  I 
certainly  never  observed  the  very  striking  contrast  between  my 
daughters  as  I  do  now,  though  I  always  knew  they  were  very 
unlike.  You,  dear  Mary,  would,  I  think,  even  more  than  Em- 
meline.  shrink  from  the  life  which  for  a  few  months  in  every 
year  we  must  now  lead,  if  we  would  do  our  duty  in  the  station 
we  are  ordained  to  fill.  I  think  one  season  will  prove  to  Caro- 
line that  it  is  not  in  gayety  she  will  find  true  and  perfect  hap- 
piness, and  if  it  do  so,  I  shall  join  in  society  next  year  with  a 
less  trembling  heart.  And  now,  adieu,  my  dear  young  friend. 
If  by  Emmeline's  long  silence  you  have  ever  perinitted  your- 
self to  entertain  a  suspicion  that  I  did  not  approve  of  your  cor- 
respondence, let  this  letter  from  me  prove  your  error,  and  re- 
member, if  ever  sorrow  in  your  young  yet  checkered  life  should 
assail  you,  and  you  would  conceal  them  from  your  revered  pa- 
rent, fearing  to  increase  her  griefs,  write  to  me  without  hesita- 
tion, without  fear,  and  I  will  answer  you  to  the  best  of  my 
ability  ;  for  sympathy,  believe  me,  you  will  never  appeal  to  me 
in  vain,  and  if  you  require  advice,  I  will  give  it  you  with  all 
the  affection  1  feel  towards  you.  God  bless  you,  my  dear  girl 
Yours,  most  affectionately,  E.  HAMILTON. 

From  Emmeli)ie  Hamilton  to  Mary  Greville. 

A  month,  actually  a  whole  month  has  elapsed,  dearest  Mary, 
since  I  wrote  to  you  last,  and  not  a  line  from  you.  Granting 
it  was  nearly  a  week  on  the  way,  three  weeks  are  surely  long 
enough  for  you  to  have  written  an  answer,  when  I  entreated 
you  to  write  so  soon.  What  can  be  the  cause  of  this  silence  ? 
I  will  not  upbraid  you,  because  I  tremble  when  I  think  what 
may  perhaps  have  occasioned  it.  Mamma  has  become  almost 


18  THE    MOTHERS    RECOMPENSE. 

as  anxious  as  myself,  therefore,  as  soon  as  3-011  can.  pray  write 
if  it  be  but  one  line  to  say  you  are  well  and  at  peace.  I  do  not, 
will  not  ask  more.  1  scarcely  like  to  write  on  indifferent  sub- 
jects in  this  letter,  but  yet  as  you  liave  given  me  nothing  to 
answer,  I  must  do  so  to  till  up  my  paper:  for  if  what  I  dread 
be  not  the  case,  you  w-ill  not  thank  me  for  an  epistle  containing 
but  a  dozen  lines.  London  is  becoming  rather  more  agreeable, 
and  the  togs  have  given  place  to  fine  weather.  The  Court 
arrived  from  Brighton  yesterday,  and  they  say  the  town  will 
now  rapidly  fill.  Caroline  is  all  joy,  because  early  next  month 
Mr.  G-rahame's  family  leave  Brighton.  They  have  a  fine  house 
in  Piccadilly  not  very  far  from  us.  and  Caroline  is  anticipating 
great  pleasure  in  the  society  of  Annie.  I  wonder  what  my 
sister  can  find  to  like  so  much  in  Miss  Grahame,  to  me  this 
friendship  has  been  and  is  quite  incomprehensible  She  does 
not  possess  one  quality  that  would  attract  me  ;  what  a  fortu- 
nate thing  it  is  we  do  not  all  like  the  same  sort  of  people. 
Congratulate  me,  my  dear  friend.  I  am  overcoming  in  a  degree 
my  dislike  to  the  company  of  strangers.  Some  of  papa  and 
mamma's  select  friends  and  their  families  have  been  calling  on 
us  the  last  month,  and  we  have  lately  had  rather  more  society 
in  the  evening ;  not  any  thing  like  large  parties,  but  nice  little 
conversaziones,  and  really  the  lords  and  ladies  who  compose 
them  are  much  more  agreeable  than  my  fancy  pictured  them. 
They  are  so  intelligent  and  know  so  much  of  the  world,  and 
the  anecdotes  they  relate  are  so  amusing,  and  some  so  full  of 
good-natured  wit.  that  in  one  evening  I  became  more  advanced 
in  my  favorite  study,  that  of  character,  than  I  do  in  weeks 
spent  in  retirement.  Caroline  is  very  much  admired,  and  I 
sometimes  look  at  her  with  surprise  ;  for  she  certainly  looks 
much  better,  and  makes  herself  more  agreeable  among  stran- 
gers than  she  always  does  at  home.  Mamma  would  call  that 
perhaps  an  unkind  reflection,  but  I  do  not  mean  it  for  such  ; 
some  people  are  more  fascinating  out  than  at  home.  I  am 
contented  to  remain  in  the  shade,  and  only  speak  when  I  atn 
spoken  to,  like  a  good  little  girl ;  that  is  to  say.  I  converse  with 
those  who  are  good-natured  enough  to  converse  with  me.  and 
many  agreeable  evenings  have  I  passed  in  that  way.  There  is 

her  Grace  the  Duchess  D ,  a  very  delightful  woman,  with 

elegant  manners,  and  full  of  true  kindness.  I  like  the  way  she 
speaks  to  her  daughters,  at  least  her  two  youngest — the  rest 
are  married — Lady  Anne  and  Lady  Lucy  ;  they  appear  very 
nice  young  women,  agreeable  companions :  as  yet  we  have  but 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  19 

little  conversation  in  common,  though  they  appear  to  get  on 
remarkably  well  with  Caroline.  The  Countess  Elmore.  a  n-nt* 
vdle  mariee,  but  a  delightful  creature,  so  exquisitely  lovely — • 
such  eyes,  hair,  teeth;  and  yet  these  rare  charms  appear 
entirely  forgotten,  or  displayed  only  for  the  Earl  her  husband, 
who  is  worthy  of  it  all.  He  has  talked  to  me  so  often,  that  his 
wife  also  takes  a  great  deal  of  notice  of  me,  and  when  they  are 
of  our  party  I  always  pass- an  agreeable  evening.  •  The  Earl  is 
well  acquainted  with  our  beautiful  Devonshire,  dearest  Mary  ; 
he  admires  country  as  I  do,  aud  he  asked  so  much  about  it 
one  night  last  week,  that  I  quite  forgot  all  my  intentions  about 
control,  and  actually  talked  and  apostrophized  the  Dart  as  I 
would  to  one  of  my  own  brothers.  I  forgot  every  body  else  in 
the  room,  till  I  caught  mamma's  glance  fixed  earnestly  on  me, 
and  then,  my  dear  friend,  I  did  not  feel  over  comfortable,  how- 
ever, I  was  soon  at  ease  again,  for  I  saw  it  was  only  warning, 
not  reproving ;  and  the  next  morning,  when  I  sought  her  to 
tell  her  all  my  delight  of  the  proceeding  evening,  she  shared  in  it 
all,  and  when  I  asked  her,  half  fearfully,  if  her  glance  meant 
I  was  passing  the  boundary  she  had  laid  down,  she  said,  "  Not 
with  the  Earl  of  Elmore,  my  dear  Emmeline  ;  but  had  you 
been  talking  in  the  same  animated  strain  to  the  Marquis  of 
Alford,  who,  I  believe,  took  you  in  to  supper,  I  should  say  you 
had." 

"  But  I  did  not  with  him,"  I  exclaimed.  "  No,  my  love, 
she  answered,  laughing  at  the  anxiety  that  was,  I  felt,  imprint- 
ed on  my  face.  "But  why  are  you  so  terrified  at  the  bare 
suggestion  ?" 

••  Because,"  I  said,  and  I  felt  I  blushed,  "  he  is  a  single  man  ; 
and  I  never  can  speak  with  the  same  freedom  to  unmarried 
as  to  married  men." 

"  And  why  not  ?"  she  asked,  and  fixed  her  most  penetrating 
glance  on  my  face. 

I  became  more  and  more  confused,  dear  Mary,  for  I  felt 
even  to  my  o\vn  mother  it  would  be  difficult  to  express  my 
feelings  on  that  subject.  I  managed,  however,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, to  say  that  I  had  often  heard  Annie  say  she  hated  as- 
semblies where  there  were  only  married  men.  though  there  might 
be  some  fun  in  endeavoring  to  excite  the  lealousy  of  their  wives ; 
but  it  was  nothing  compared  to  the  triumph  of  chaining  young 
men  to  her  side,  and  by  animated  conversation  and  smiles 
make  each  believe  himself  a  special  object  of  attr?et,ion,  when, 
iu  reality  she  cared  nothing  for  either.  Ci  Rathe?  tb^n  do  that," 


i 


20  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE, 

I  exclaimed,  starting  from  the  stool  which  I  had  occupied  al 
mamma's  feet,  and  with  an  energy  I  could  not  restrain,  li  1 
would  bury  myself  forever  in  a  desert,  and  never  look  upon  a 
face  1  loved  ;  rather  than  play  upon  the  feelings  of  my  fellow- 
creatures,  I  would — I  know  not  what  I  would  not  endure.  Moth- 
er." I  continued.  "  mother,  if  ever  you  see  me  for  one  instant  for- 
get myself,  and  by  word  or  sign  approach  the  borders  of  what  ia 
termed  coquetry,  promise  me  faithfully  you  will  on  the  instant 
prevent  farther  intercourse,  you  will  not  hesitate  one  moment 
to  tell  me  of  it ;  even  though  in  your  eyes  it  may  appear  but 
earnest  or  animated  conversation.  Mother,  promise  me  this." 
I  repeated,  for  I  felt  carried  so  far  beyond  myself,  that  when  I 
look  back  on  that  conversation,  it  is  with  astonishment  at  my 
own  temerity.  "  Annie  has  laughed  at  me  when  I  expressed 
my  indignation;  she  says  it  is  what  every  woman  of  fashion 
does,  and  that  I  am  ridiculous  If  I  hope  to  be  otherwise. 
Mother,  you  will  not  laugh  at  me.  Spare  me,  spare  me  from 
the  remorse  that  will  ensue,  if  such  ever  be  my  conduct." 

';  Fear,  not,  my  dear  and  noble  child,"  she  exclaimed  (her 
voice  I  knew  expressed  emotion),  and  she  pressed  me  fondly 
to  her  heart ;  "  I  promise  all,  all  you  wish.  Retain  these  no- 
ble feelings,  these  virtuous  fears,  and  I  shall  never  have  occa- 
sion to  do  what  you  desire.  Oh,  that  your  sister  thought  the 
same  !"  she  added  ;  and  oh,  Mary,  I  shall  never  forget  the  tone 
of  anxiety  and  almost  distress  with  which  those  last  words 
were  said. 

"  She  does,  she  will,  she  must,"  I  said,  vehemently,  for  1 
would  have  given  worlds  to  calm  the  anxiety  I  know  she  feels 
for  Caroline,  and  I  do  wish  that  on  some  points  my  sister 
thought  as  I  do,  not  from  vanity,  my  dear  Mary,  believe  me, 
but  for  her  own  happiness.  I  cannot  describe  each  member  ol 
our  circle,  dear  Mary,  in  this  letter,  but  you  shall  have  them 
by  degrees.  The  Earl  and  Countess  Elmore  are  my  favorites. 
I  was  very  sorry  mamma  did  not  permit  me  to  join  a  very 
small  party  at  their  house  last  week ;  the  Countess  came  her- 
self to  beg,  but  mamma's  mandate  had  gone  forth  long  ago, 
and  therefore  I  submitted  I  hope  with  a  good  grace,  but  I 
doubt  it.  She  wishes  me  only  to  join  in  society  at  home  this 
year,  but  next  year  I  may  go  out  with  her  as  often  as  I  please. 
Lord  Henry  D'Este  is  one  of  the  most  amusing  creatures  I 
ever  met  with,  he  has  always  some  droll  anecdote  to  relate  that 
calls  forth  universal  merriment ;  but  of  single  men,  the  Earl 
of  St.  Eval,  eldest  son  of  the  Marquis  of  Malvern,  is  the  inoat 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE  21 

agreeable.  He  is  not  particularly  handsome,  but  has  an  elo- 
quent smile  and  persuading  voice,  very  tall  and  noble  in  hia 
carriage.  He  lias  talked  to  'me  much  of  Oxford,  where  for 
about  six  or  seven  months  he  was  acquainted  with  my  brothers, 
of  whom  he  spoke  in  such  high  terms,  dear  Mary,  and  quite 
regretted  he  could  not  enjoy  their  society  longer.  He  has 
since  been  on  the  Continent,  and  relates  so  delighfully  all  lie 
has  remarked  or  seen  among  foreigners,  that  it  is  evident  he 
travelled  really  for  pleasure  and  information,  not  for  fashion. 
He  appears  much  attracted  with  Caroline.  I  am  sure  he  ad- 
mires her  very  much,  and  I  only  wish  she  would  be  as  pleased 
with  him  as  I  am.  but  she  always  provokes  by  saying  he  has 
not  sufficient  esprit ;  nor  is  he  quite  handsome  enough  to  please 
her  ;  and  yet  she  never  refuses  his  attentions  or  shrinks  from 
his  conversation,  as,  if  I  disliked  him  (as  when  we  are  alone  she 
appears  to  do),  I  know  I  should.  Do  not  tremble  for  my 
peace,  dear  Mary,  as  you  read  these  flowing  descriptions.  In 
society  they  are  most  agreeable,  but  as  the  partner  of  my  life, 
I  have  not  yet  seen  one  to  whom,  were  the  question  asked, 
I  could  with  any  hope  of  happiness  give  my  hand.  These 
scenes  are  well  for  a  time,  but  they  are  not  those  in  which  I 
would  wish  to  pass  my  life.  My  wishes  are  humbler,  much 
humbler;  but  I  do  not  yet  understand  them  sufficiently  even 
to  define  them  to  myself.  It  is  much  the  same  with  the  young 
ladies  of  rank  with  whom  I  now  frequently  associate ;  they 
are  agreeable  companions,  but  not  one,  no,  not  one  can  supply 
your  place,  dearest  Mary.  Not  one  can  I  love  as  I  do  you.  We 
have  no  ideas  in  common  ;  amiable  and  good  as  in  all  proba- 
bility they  are,  still,  as  my  intimate  friends,  I  could  not  re- 
gard them  ;  and  yet — strange  contradiction  you  will  say — I 
wish  Caroline  could  find  one  amongst  them  to  supply  the  place 
of  Annie  Grahame  in  her  heart.  Why  I  am  so  prejudiced 
against  her,  you  will  ask.  Mary.  I  am  prejudiced  and  I  cannot 
Oelp  it.  Something  tells  me  my  sister  will  obtain  no  good  from 
this  intimacy.  I  never  did  like  her,  and  of  late  this  feeling  has 
increased.  Ellen  is  pleased,  too,  when  her  health  permits  her 
to  join  our  agreeable  little  coteries.  She  appears  overcoming 
her  very  great  reserve,  but  does  not  become  more  lively.  She 
looks  always  to  me  as  if  she  felt  a  stain  yet  lingers  on  her 
character,  and  though  mamma" and  papa  treat  her  even  more 
kindly  than  they  did  before,  if  possible,  still  there  are  times 
when  to  me  she  appears  inwardly  unhappy.  Strangers  would 
only  pronounce  her  more  pensive  than  usual  for  her  years  ;  for 


22  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

her  slight  figure  and  very  delicate  features,  as  well  as  retiring 
manner,  make  her  appear  even  younger  than  she  is,  but  I 
sometimes  fancy  I  read  more.  She  is  always  calm  and  gentle 
as  she  used  to  be.  and  I  never  can  discover  when  any  thing 
vexes  her  except  by  her  heightened  color,  which  is  more  easily 
visible  now  than  when  her  health  was  better. 

1  am  summoned  away,  dear  Mary,  to  go  with  mamma  to 
ride,  and  as  this  leaves  to-night,  I  must  not  write  more  now, 
but  I  intend  teasing  you  with  letters  every  week  till  you  write 
to  me.  if  you  are  not  well,  in  the  sincere  wish  to  arouse  you 
and  draw  your  thoughts  from  what  may  be  unplcasing  subjects  : 
and  if  you  are  idle,  to  spur  you  to  your  task.  A.dieu,  my 
dearest  friend.  Your  ever  affectionate  EAIMELINE. 

From  Mary  Greville  to  Emmcline  Hamilton. 

Gieville  Manor,  March  13. 

How  can  I  thank  you  sufficiently,  my  dearest  Emmeline, 
for  the  affectionate  letters  which  I  have  received  so  regularly 
the  last  month.  I  am  still  weak,  so  that  much  writing  is  for- 
bidden me,  and  therefore  to  reply  to  them  all  as  my  affection 
dictates  is  impossible.  But  I  know  your  kind  heart,  my  Em- 
meline  ;  I  know  it  will  be  satisfied,  when  I  say  your  letters 
have  indeed  cheered  my  couch  of  suffering ;  have  indeed  suc- 
ceeded not  only  in  changing  my  thoughts  from  the  subject 
that  perhaps  too  much  engrosses  them,  but  sometimes  even  my 
poor  mother's.  Your  first  long  letter,  dated  January,  you  tell 
me  you  wrote  to  let  me  know  you  as  you  are,  that  all  your 
faults  may  be  laid  bare  to  my  inspection  ;  and  what  is  to  be 
the  consequence — that  you  are,  as  you  said  you  would  be,  low- 
ered in  my  estimation?  no.  dear  and  candid  girl,  you  are  not, 
and  while  you  retain  such  ingenuousness  of  disposition,  you 
never  can  be.  Wrong  you  certainly  were  to  encourage  such  de- 
spondency, when  so  very  many  blessings  were  around  you  ;  but 
when  once  you  become  sensible  of  an  error.it  is  already  with  you 
corrected.  Mamma  has,  I  know,  some  weeks  ago,  written  to 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  to  tell  her  Greville  Manor  is  to  be  sold.  We 
shall  never  return  to  it  again  ;  the  haunts  I  so  dearly  loved, 
the  scenes  in  which  I  have  spent  so  many  happy  hours,  all  will 
pass  into  the  hands  of  strangers, — it  will  be  no  longer  our 
own  ;  we  shall  be  no  longer  together,  as  for  so  many  years  we 
have  been  In  changing  my  residence  thus,  I  feel  as  if  cverj 
tie  I  loved  was  torn  asunder.  * 

I  thought  I  could  have  written  calmly  on  this  subject,  my 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  23 

Emmeline,  but  I  believed  myself  stronger,  both  in  mind  and 
body,  than  I  am.  I  have  been  very  ill,  and  therefore  let 
that  be  my  excuse.  Plead  for  me  with  your  mother.  Einme- 
line ;  tell  her  she  knows  not  how  I  struggle  to  conceal  every 
pang  from  the  watchful  eyes  of  that  mother  who  has  hung  over 
my  couch,  with  an  agony  that  has  told  me  plainer  than  words 
I  am  indeed  her  only  joy  on  earth.  My  spirit  has  been  so 
tortured  the  three  months  of  my  stern  father's  residence  at 
home,  that  I  feel  as  if  I  would — oh  !  how  gladly — flee  away 
and  be  at  rest:  but  for  her  sake,  I  pray  for  life,  for 
strength ;  for  her  sake.  I  make  no  resistance  to  the  advice  of 
Mr.  Maitland.  that  for  a  year  or  two  we  should  live  in  Italy  or 
Switzerland,  though  in  leaving  England  I  feel  as  if  I  left  I  know 
not  what,  but  somewhat  more  than  the  mere  love  for  my  native 
land.  Whv.  why  is  my  health  so  weak  ?  why  does  it  ever  suffer 
when  my  mind  is  unhappy  ?  Oh,  Einmeline.  you  know  not  the 
fierce  struggle  it  is  not  to  murmur  ;  to  feel  that  it  is  in  mercy 
my  Father  in  Heaveu  afflicts  me  thus.  If  I  might  but  retain 
my  health,  my  mother  should  never  suspect  my  sufferings,  I 
would.  I  know  I  would,  hide  them  from  every  eye  ;  but  she 
reads  them  in  my  failing  frame  and  pallid  features,  when  I 
would  by  every  means  in  my  power  prove  to  her  that  while,  she 
is  spared  to  me.  I  cannot  be  wholly  unhappy.  It  was  not  ill- 
ness of  body  that  prevented  my  replying  to  your  first  long 
letter  ;  but  papa  and  Alfred  were  both  at  home,  and  my  nerves 
•were  so  frequently  shaken,  that  I  knew  it  would  be  impossible 
to  write,  and  therefore  did  not  attempt  it.  even  at  the  risk  of 
offending,  or  at  least  giving  pain  to  you.  I  begged  mamma  to 
write  to  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  tell  her  all  that  had  occurred,  on 
the  receipt  of  your  second,  dated  February  ;  for  I  thought 
while  explaining  our  silence  it  would  relieve  herself,  which  I 
think  it  did.  It  i?  six  weeks  since  then  and  I  am  only  now 
allowed  to  write,  and  have  been  already  obliged  to  pause  more 
than  once  in  -my  task;  so  forgive  all  incoherences,  my  dearest 
Einmeline.  The  Manor  is  to  be  sold  in  June  ;  for  my  sake, 
mamma  ventured  to  implore  my  father  to  dispose  of  another 
estate,  which  has  lately  become  his.  instead  of  this,  but  he  would 
not  listen  to  her  ;  and  I  implored  her  not  to  harrow  her  feelings 
by  vain  supplications  again.  Alfred  is  to  go  to  Cambridge, 
and  this  increased  expense,  as  it  is  for  him,  papa  seems  to 
think  nothing  of.  but  to  my  poor  mother  it  is  only  another  sub- 
ject of  uneasiness,  not  so  much  for  our  sakes  as  for  his  own. 
Temptations  of  every  kind  will  be  around  him  ;  his  own  little  in- 


24  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

como  will  never  be  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  lead  that  life  which 
his  inclination  will  bid  him  seek.  Misfortune  on  every  side  ap- 
pears to  darken  the  future  ;  I  cannot  look  forward.  Pray  for 
me  my  dearest  friend,  that  I  maybe  enabled  to  trust  so  impli- 
citly in  the  Most  High  that  even  now  my  faith  should  not  for 
a  moment  waver.  Oh  !  Emmeline,  in  spite  of  all  harshness, 
his  coldness,  and  evident  dislike,  my  heart  yearns  to  my  father. 
Would  he  but  permit  me,  I  would  love  and  respect  him  as 
fondly  as  ever  child  did  a  parent,  and  when,  after  beho'lding  his 
cruelty  to  my  mother,  my  heart  has  sometimes  almost  involun- 
tarily reproached  him,  and  risen  in  rebellion  against  him,  the 
remorse  which  instantly  follows  adds  to  that  heavy  burden 
which  bows  us  to  the  earth.  We  leave  England  in  May,  if  I 
am  sufficiently  strong.  I  do  not  think  we  shall  visit  London, 
but  travel  leisurely  along  the  coast  to  Dover.  I  wish  I  could 
see  you  once  more,  for  I  know  not  if  we  shall  ever  meet  again, 
dear  Emmeline  ;  but  perhaps  it  is  better  not,  it  would  only 
heighten  the  pain  of  separation.  I  should  like  much  to  have  writ- 
ten to  your  kind,  good  mother  with  this,  but  I  fear  my  strength 
will  not  permit,  yet  perhaps,  if  she  have  one  half-hour's  leisure, 
she  will  write  to  me  again  ;  her  letters  indeed  are  my  com- 
forts and  support.  I  tliank  your  brother  Herbert  for  his  many 
kind  and  affectionate  messages;  tell  him  all  you  will  of  our 
plans,  and  tell  him — tell  him — his  sister  Mary  will  never  forget 
the  brother  of  her  childhood — the  kind,  the  sympathizing  com- 
panion of  her  youth.  To  Percy,  too,  remember  me  ;  and  say  all 
your  own  affection  would  dictate  to  Caroline  and  Ellen.  I 
would  have  written  to  the  latter,  but  my  weakness  will  I  know 
prove  my  best  excuse.  Before  I  quite  conclude,  let  me  say 
how  pleased  I  am  to  think  that,  although  you  still  regret  Oak- 
wood,  you  can  find  some  pleasures  in  your  present  life.  The 
society  you  describe  must  be  agreeable.  I  could  scarcely, 
however,  refrain  from  smiling  at  your  simplicity,  my  dear  Em- 
meline, in  imagining  that  all  who  visited  at  your  father's  house 
would  be  as  delightful  and  estiinable  as  those  whom  your 
second  letter  so  eloquently  described.  Why  are  we  so  con- 
stantly commanded  to  be  charitable  in  our  intercourse  one 
with  another?  Must  it  not  be  because  our  Great  Master  knew 
that  we  all  had  failings,  some  more  than  others?  if  all  were  as 
worthy  and  virtuous  as  some  appear,  there  would  be  no  need 
to  practise  such  a  virtue;  but  it  is  in  a  mixed  society  it  is  more 
frequently  called  into  play.  More,  would  we  preserve  our  own 
virtue  and  piety,  we  must  be  charitable.  We  must  look  on  the 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  25 

weaknesses  of  our  fellow-creatures  with  mercy  and  kindness,  or 
how  can  we  demand  it  for  ourselves?  I  am  no  advocate  for 
Delusion  in  general,  though  my  own  feelings  prefer  a  quiet 
life.  I  think  a  life  of  retirement  is  apt  to  render  us  selfish, 
and  too  positive  in  the  wisdom  and  purity  of  our  own  notions, 
too  prejudiced  against  the  faults  of  our  fellows.  Society  is  a 
mirror,  where  we  can  see  human  character  reflected  in  a  va 
rir-ty  of  shades,  and  thereby,  if  our  minds  be  so  inclined,  we 
may  attain  a  better  knowledge  of  ourselves.  If,  before  we 
condemned  others,  we  looked  into  our  own  hearts,  we  are  likely 
to  become  more  charitable  and  more  humble  at  tne  same  n.o- 
m«nt.  and  our  own  conduct  necessarily  becomes  more  guarded. 
But  with  your  mother,  my  Emmeline,  and  your  open  heart — 
unsophisticated  as  it  may  be — you  will  never  go  far  wrong. 
jNJnmma  is  looking  anxiously  at  me.  as  if  she  feared  I  am  exert- 
ing myself  too  much.  I  feel  my  cheeks  are  painfully  flushed, 
ai-d  therefore  I  will  obey  her  gentle  hint.  Farewell,  my  Em- 
meline;  may  you  long  be  spared  the  sorrows  that  have  lately 
wrung  the  heart  of  your  attached  and  constan,  friend, 

MARY  GREVILLE. 

Ffom  Mrs.  Hamilton  to  Miss  Greville. 

LONDON,  March  20th. 

Your  letter  to  Emmeline,  my  dear  young  friend.  I  have  read 
with  feelings  both  of  pain  and  pleasure,  and  willingly,  most 
willingly,  do  I  comply  with  your  request,  that  I  would  write  to 
you.  however  briefly.  Your  despondency  is  natural,  and  yet 
it  is  with  delight  I  perceive  through  its  gloom  those  feelings  of 
faith  and  duty,  which  your  sense  of  religion  has  made  so  pecu- 
liarly your  own.  I  sympathize,  believe  me,  from  my  heart,  in 
those  trials  which  your  very  delicate  health  renders  you  so  little 
able  to  bear.  Iwill  not  endeavor  by  words  of  consolation  to  alle- 
viate their  severity,  for  I  know  it  would  be  in  vain.  In  your 
earliest  youth  I  endeavored  to  impress  upon  your  mind  that  we 
are  not  commanded  to  check  every  natural  feeling.  We  are 
but  told  to  pour  before  God  our  trouble,  to  lean  on  His  mercy, 
to  trust  in  His  providence,  to  restrain  our  lips  from  murmur- 
ing, and  if  we  do  so,  though  our  tears  may  fall,  and  our  heart 
feel  breaking,  yet  our  prayers  will  be  heard  and  accepted  on 
high  It  is  not  with  you,  my  poor  girl,  the  weak  indulgence 
of  sorrow  that  ever  prostrates  you  on  a  couch  of  suffering  it  is 
the  struggle  of  resignation  and  concealment,  that  is  too  fierce- 
for  the  delicacy  of  your  constitution ;  and  do  you  not  think 
2 


26  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

that  strife  is  marked  by  Him,  -who,  as  a  father,  pitietl.  his  chil- 
dren ?  Painful  as  it  is  to  you,  my  dear  Mary,  your  sufferings 
may  be  iu  a  degree  a  source  of  mercy  to  your  mother.  Ago- 
nizing as  it  is  to  the  heart  of  a  parent,  to  watch  the  fevered 
couch  of  a  beloved  child,  yet  had  she  not  that  anxiety,  the 
conduct  of  your  father  and  brother  might  present  still  deeper 
Wretchedness.  For  your  sake,  she  dismisses  the  harrowing 
thoughts  that  would  otherwise  be  her  own  ;  for  your  sake,  she 
rallies  her  own  energies,  which  else  might  desert  her;  and 
when  you  are  restored  to  her,  when,  in  those  intervals  of  peace 
which  are  sometimes  your  own.  she  sees  you  in  health,  and 
feels  your  constant  devotion,  believe  me,  there  is  a  well  of  com- 
fort, of  blessed  comfort,  in  her  fond  heart,  of  wuich  nothing 
can  deprive  her.  For  her  sake,  then,  my  dearest  Mary,  try  to 
conquer  this  reluctance  to  leave  England.  I  do  not  reproach 
your  grief,  for  I  know  that  it  is  natural.  But  endeavor  to 
think  that  this  residence  for  a  few  years  on  the  Continent,  may 
restore  your  mother  to  a  degree  of  peace,  which,  in  England,  at 
present  she  cannot  know  ;  and  will  not  this  thought,  my  love, 
reconcile  you  to  a  short  separation  from  the  land  of  your  birth, 
and  the  friends  you  so  dearly  love?  We  shall  all  think  of  and 
love  our  Mary,  however  widely  parted.  We  will  write  very 
frequently,  and  every  information  I  can  obtain  of  your  brother 
shall  be  faithfully  recorded.  Mr.  Hamilton  has  ever  felt  for 
your  mother  as  a  brother  would,  and  for  her  sake,  her  misguid- 
ed son  will  be  ever  an  object  of  his  dearest  care.  Do  not  fear 
for  him,  and  endeavor  to  soothe  your  mother's  anxiety  on  that 
head  also.  Herbert  has  written  to  you,  I  inclose  his  letter  ; 
and  he  entreats  most  earnestly  that  you  will  not  only  permit 
him  to  continue  to  write,  but  answer  him,  during  your  residence 
abroad.  He  has  been  deeply  grieved  at  the  intelligence  we 
have  reported  of  you,  and  I  hope  and  think,  if  your  mother  do 
Dot  disapprove  of  your  correspondence,  that  the  humble  yet  fer- 
vent faith  which  breathes  in  the  religion  of  my  son,  may  long 
prove  a  source  of  consolation  as  well  as  interest  to  you,  who, 
from  your  childhood,  could  sympathize  with  all  his  exalted 
feelings.  Poor  Emmeline  has  shed  many  bitter  tears  over 
your  letter  ;  she  cannot  bear  to  think  of  your  leaving  England, 
t>ut  yet  agrees  with  me  in  believing  it  will  be  a  beneficial 
shange  for  both  yourself  and  Mrs.  Greville,  but  her  letter  shall 
speak  her  own  feelings.  I  will  not  write  more  now,  but  will 
very  soon  again.  Do  not  exert  yourself  too  much  to  answer 
either  Emmeline  or  myself ;  we  will  not  wait  for  regular  replies. 


TirE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  27 

I  hare  written  to  your  mother  also,  therefore  this  brief  epistle 
is  entirely  for  yourself,  as  you  wished  it.  Mr.  Hamilton  will 
meet  you  at  Dover,  which  will  afford  me  much  satisfaction,  aa 
I  shall  know  more  than  I  could  ever  learn  by  a  letter,  and  he 
will.  I  trust,  be  enabled  to  set  your  mother's  heart  at  rest  on 
some  points  which  must  be  now  subjects  of  anxiety.  God  bless 
you.  my  Mary,  and  restore  you  speedily  to  health  and  peace. 
Yours,  with  the  warme&t  affection, 

E.  HAMILTON. 

CHAPTER  II. 

AN  early  April  sun  was  shining  brightly  tt  rough  one  of  the 
windows  of  an  elegantly  furnished  boudoir  cf  a  distinguished- 
looking  mansion,  in  the  vicinity  of  Piccadilly.  There  was 
somewhat  in  the  aspect  of  the  room,  in  the  variety  of  toys 
scattered  on  every  side,  in  the  selection  of  the  newest  novels 
which  were  arranged  on  the  table,  and  an  indescribable  air 
which  pervaded  the  whole,  that  might  have  aroused  a  sus- 
picion in  any  keen  observer  who  could  discover  character  by 
trifles,  that  the  lady  to  whom  that  apartment  belonged  pos- 
sessed not  the  very  strongest  or  most  sensible  mind.  A  taste 
which  frivolous  trifles  could  alone  gratify  appeared  evident ; 
and  the  countenance  of  the  lad}',  who  was  reclining  listlessly 
on  the  couch,  would  have  confirmed  these  surmises.  She  did 
not  look  above  forty,  if  as  much,  but  her  features  told  a  tale  of- 
lassitude  and  weariness,  at  variance  with  the  prime  of  life, 
which  was  then  her  own.  No  intellect,  no  emotion  was  ex- 
pressed on  her  countenance  ;  it  never  varied,  except,  perhaps, 
to  denote  peevishness  or  sullenness  when  domestic  affairs  an- 
noyed her,  which  appeared  to  be  the  case  at  present.  A 
volume  of  the  last  new  novel  was  in  her  hand,  in  which  she 
appeared  sufficiently  interested  as  to  feel  still  more  annoyed 
at  the  interruption  she  was  constantly  receiving  from  a  young 
laclv.  who  was  also  an  inmate  of  her  room. 

Striking,  indeed  \vas  the  contrast  exhibited  in  the  features 
of  the  mother  and  daughter,  for  so  nearly  were  they  connected, 
and  yet  to  some  the  inanimate  expression  of  the  former  would 
have  been  far  preferable  to  the  handsome  but  scornful  coun- 
tenance of  the  latter.  She  could  not  have  been  more  than 
eighteen,  but  the  expression  of  the  features  and  the  tone  of 
chararacter  were  already  decided  to  no  ordinary  degree. 
There  was  an  air  of  fashion  in  her  every  movement ;  an  easy  as- 


£8  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Burance  and  independence  of  spirit  which  might  have  made 
her  mother  respected,  but  which  in  one  so  young  were  intoler- 
able to  all  save  those  whom  she  had  contrived  to  make  her  de- 
voted admirers.  Spite  of  the  natural  beauty  of  her  face, 
haughtiness,  pride,  and  some  of  the  baser  passions  of  human 
nature,  were  there  visibly  impressed ;  at  least  whenever  she 
appeared  in  her  natural  character,  when  no  concealed  designs 
caused  her  to  veil  those  less  amiable  emotions  in  eloquent 
smiles  and  a  manner  whose  fascination  was  felt  and  unresisted, 
even  by  those  who  perhaps  had  been  before  prejudiced  against 
her.  Various  were  the  characters  she  assumed  in  society — as- 
sumed to  suit  her  own  purpose,  made  up  of  art ;  even  at  home 
she  sometimes  found  herself  seeking  for  design,  as  if  it  were 
impossible  to  go  straight  forward,  to  act  without  some  reason. 
We  shall  find,  however,  as  we  proceed,  that  she  had  one  confi- 
dant at  home,  to  whom,  when,  exhausted  by  the  fatigue  of  plan- 
ning, she  would  confess  herself,  and  who  was  generally  the 
hearer  and  abettor  of  the  young  lady's  schemes.  This  was  a 
person  who  had  lived  for  many  years  in  the  family  as  govern- 
ess ;  although  that  office  with  the  elder  of  her  charges  had 
ever  been  but  nominal,  and  with  the  younger  it  was  neglected 
for  the  office  of  friend  and  confidant,  which  Miss  Malison  very 
much  preferred. 

It  was  evident  this  morning  that  the  efforts  of  the  young 
lady  had  not  succeeded  quite  so  well  as  usual  in  veiling  the 
discontent  in  which  she  inwardly  indulged.  She  was  amusing 
herself  at  that  moment  in  opening  every  book  on  the  table, 
glancing  sulkily  on  their  contents,  and  then  throwing  them 
down  again  with  a  violence  that  not  only  had  the  effect  of 
making  her  mother  start,  but  of  disturbing  the  quiet  repose  of 
some  of  the  fragile  toys  in  their  vicinity,  to  the  manifest  dan- 
ger of  their  destruction 

"  I  wish  you  would  oblige  me,  Annie,  by  endeavoring  to 
amuse  yourself  in  a  quieter  manner,"  observed  her  mother,  in 
a  very  languid  tone.  '"  You  have  no  pity  on  my  poor  nerves. 
You  know  when  I  have  these  nervous  headaches,  the  least 
thing  disturbs  me." 

"  You  may  be  certain,  mamma,  it  is  reading  that  mnkos 
them  worse,  not  my  noise.  You  had  much  better  put  away 
the  bnck,  and  then  you  have  some  chance  of  being  free  from 
them."  . 

"  Will  you  read  to  me  then  instead  ?  I  assure  you  I  should 
much  prefer  it." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  29 

K  Tread  aloud  !  I  could  not  do  it  to  please  the  most  agree- 
able person  in  the  world  ;  and  as  you  are  so  very  obliging  to 
me  in  refusing  so  decidedly  to  go  with  me  to-night,  you  cannot 
expect  I  should  oblige  you." 

Lady  Helen  Grahame's  placid  countenance  gave  no  evi- 
dence of  inward  disturbance  at  this  undutiful  speech  :  she  was 
too  much  used  to  it,  to  feel  the  pain  it  might  otherwise  have 
produced,  and  too  indifferent  to  be  either  indignant  or  dis- 
pleased. 

"  You  are  very  ungrateful,  Annie,"  she  replied,  in  that 
same  languid  tone,  but  with  so  very  little  expression  in  her 
voice,  no  emotion  was  visible.  "  I  tell  you  I  will  send  round 
to  Lady  Charlton  or  the  Countess  St.  Aubyn ;  either  of  them, 
I  know,  will  be  very  happy  to  chaperon  you.  Surely  you  can 
let  me  be  quiet  for  one  evening." 

';  Lady  Charlton  I  cannot  bear ;  she  is  the  most  detestable 
creature  I  know.  I  would  rather  be  buried  alive  in  the  coun- 
try, than  join  in  London  society  under  her  care ;  with  her  long 
speeches  of  prudery  and  virtue,  and  the  modest  reserve  of 
young  ladies,  and  a  hundred  other  such  saint-like  terms,  when 
all  the  time  she  is  doing  all  she  can  to  catch  husbands  for  her 
three  great  gawky  daughters,  who  in  mamma's  presence  are  all 
simplicity  and  simper — sweet  girls  just  introduced  ;  when  I  am 
very  much  mistaken  if  the  youngest  is  not  nearer  thirty  than 
twenty.  And  as  for  Lady  St.  Aubyn,  you  know  very  well, 
mamma,  papa  declared  I  should  never  go  out  with  her  again ; 
it  is  just  the  same  as  if  I  were  alone.  She  has  not  a  word  or 
thought  for  any  one  but  herself:  she  thinks  she  may  act  with 
as  much  coquetry  now  as  before  she  married.  I  do  believe 
that  woman  only  married  that  she  might  be  more  at  liberty 
and  go  out  by  herself.1' 

"  Then,  if  you  like  neither  of  them,  write  a  note  to  Mrs. 
Hamilton.  Your  father  would  be  better  pleased  if  you  were 
to  go  under  her  care,  than  of  any  other." 

'•  Mrs.  Hamilton  !  I  would  not  for  worlds.  Every  plea- 
sure I  might  otherwise  enjoy  would  vanish  before  the  stern 
majesty  of  her  presence.  I  wonder  how  Caroline  can  bear  the 
thraldom  in  which  her  mother  holds  ler  —  it  is  complete 
slavery." 

-  I  will  not  hear  a  word  against  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  exclaimed 
Lady  Helen/ with  more  display  of  feeling  than  had  yet  been 
perceivable.  ';  She  is  a  truer  friend  both  to  your  father  and 
myself  than  any  of  those  with  whom  we  associate  here." 


30  THE    MOTHER  S    RECOMPENSE. 

"It  is  well  you  think  so,  my  lady  mother."  replied  Mis*! 
Grahame,  in  a  peculiar  tone.  "It  is  fortunate  you  are  not 
troubled  with  jealousy,  and  that  this  paragon  of  perfection,  this 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  is  your  friend  as  well  as  papa's.  If  I  heard 
my  husband  so  constantly  extolling  another  woman  in  my  pre- 
sence, I  should  not  be  quite  so  easy  " 

If  a  flush  rose  to  Lady  Helen's  pale  cheek  at  these  words, 
it  was  so  faint  as  scarcely  to  be  perceivable,  and  she  took  no 
notice,  except  to  say — 

"  If  your  great  desire  to  go  to  this  ball  is  to  be  with  Caro- 
line the  first  night  of  her  ent.reR,  I  should  think  Mrs.  Hamilton 
was  the  best  chaperon  you  could  have." 

"I  tell  you,  mother.  I  will  not  go  with  her.  She  has  tot 
bewitched  me  as  she  has  you  and  papa.  If  you  would  only  be 
quiet  for  a  few  hours,  I  am  sure  your  head  would  be  sufficient- 
ly well  for  you  to  go  with  me ;  and  you  know  I  never  do  enjoy 
an  evening  so  much  as  when  you  accompany  me.  dear  mamma," 
she  continued,  softening  the  violence  with  which  she  had  at 
first  spoken  into  one  of  the  most  persuasive  eloquence;  and 
humbling  her  pride  and  controlling  the  contempt  with  which 
she  ever  looked  on  her  weak  but  far  more  principled  mother, 
she  knelt  on  a  low  stool  by  her  side,  and  caressingly  kissed 
Lady  Helen's  hand. 

u  Dear  mamma,  you  would  oblige  me,  I  am  sure  you  would, 
if  you  knew  how  much  your  presence  contributes  to  my  enjoy- 
ment. A  ball  is  quite  a  different  thing  when  I  feel  I  am  u.ider 
your  wing,  and  you  know  papa  prefers  my  going  out  with  you 
to  any  one  else." 

Annie  spoke  truth,  though  her  words  appeared  but  flattery 
The  extreme  indolence  of  Lady  Helen's  natural  disposition, 
which  was  now  heightened  by  the  lassitude  attendant  on  really 
failing  health,  rendered  her  merely  a  chaperon  in  name.  Annie 
felt  very  much  more  at  liberty  when  with  her  than  with  any 
other  ;  she  could  act  as  she  pleased,  select  her  own  companions, 
coquette,  talk,  dance,  without  ever  thinking  of  her  mother  or 
being  sought  for  by  her,  till  the  end  of  the  evening.  It  was 
enough  she  was  with  Lady  Helen,  to  silence  all  gossiping 
tongues  and  to  satisfy  her  father,  who,  one  of  the  most  devoted 
members  of  the  Lower  House,  scarcely  ever  visited  such  plar-ea 
of  amusement,  and  therefore  knew  not  the  conduct  of  either  his 
wife  or  daughter.  He  long  since  discovered  his  authority  was 
as  nothing  to  his  children  ;  he  felt  most  painfully  his  sternness 
bad  alienated  their  affections,  and  he  now  rather  shrunk  from 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  31 

tlioir  society;  therefore,  even  at  home  he  was  a  solitary  man, 
and  yet  Grahame  was  furmed  for  all  the  best  emotions,  the 
wannest  affections  of  our  nature.  He  was  ignorant  that  h'w 
wife  now  very  frequently  suffered  from  ill-health,  for  he  had 
never  seen  her  conduct  different  even  when  in  youth  and  per- 
fectly well  Had  he  known  this,  and  also  the  fact  that,  though 
trembling  at  his  sternness,  she  yet  longed  to  receive  some 
token  of  his  affection — that  she  really  loved  him.  spite  of  the 
nimy  ftults  and  the  extreme  weakness  of  her  character,  he 
might  have  been  happy. 

Deceived  by  her  daughter's  manner,  Lady  Helen  began  to 
waver  in  the  positive  refusal  she  had  given  to  accompanying 
her.  and  Annie  was  not  slow  in  discovering  her  advantage  ;  she 
continued  the  persuasions  she  knew  so  well  how  to  use,  con- 
cealing the  inward  struggle  it  was  to  veil  her  discontent  at  this 
unwonted  humiliation,  and  suppressing  the  violence  that  was 
ready  to  break  forth,  at  length  succeeded.  Though  really  feel- 
ing too  languid  for  the  exertion,  the  wavering  mother  could  not 
resist  the  unusually  gentle  manner  of  the  persevering  daugh- 
ter, and  Miss  Grahame  flew  to  her  confidante  to  impart  the 
joyful  tidings. 

Miss  Malison  was  employed  in  endeavoring,  by  commands, 
exhortations,  and  threats,  to  compel  her  pupil  to  practise  a  dif- 
ficult sonata,  which  her  music-master  had  desired  might  be  pre- 
pared by  the  time  of  his  next  visit.  Now  it  happened  that 
Lilla  Grahame  had  not  the  slightest  taste  for  music,  and  that 
Miss  Malison  did  not  possess  the  patient  perseverance  requi- 
site to  smooth  the  difficulty  of  the  task,  nor  the  gentleness  ne- 
cessary to  render  it  more  pleasing  to  her  pupil ;  therefore,  in 
these  practising  lessons  discord  ever  prevailed  over  harmony, 
and  the  teacher  was  ever  ready  to  seize  the  most  trifling  excuse 
to  neglect  her  office,  and  leave  Lilla  to  practise  or  not  as  she 
please.!. 

••  Mali  son.  c/iere  Malison,"  exclaimed  Annie,  in  a  tone  of  glee, 
as  she  entered.  '•  do  leave  that  stupid  girl  and  come  with  me ; 
I  have  some  charming  intelligence  to  communicate.  And  it 
really  is  no  use  boring  yourself  with  Lilla  ;  she  will  never  play, 
try  as  hard  as  she  can." 

"  According  to  you,  I  shall  do  nothing."  burst  angrily  from 
her  sisters  lips,  for  her  temper,  naturally  good,  though  some-- 
what  hasty,  had  been  completely  ruined  by  careless  and  mis- 
taken treatment.  '•  If  1  had  been  properly  taught;  I  should 
have  done  as  others  do  :  if  Miss  Malison  had  chosen  to  take 


32  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

the  same  pains  with  me  as  Miss  Harcourt  does  with  Emmcline 
and  Ellen,  I  should  have  been  a  very  different  girl" 

'•Insolent,  ungrateful  girl !  do  you  dare  say  I  have  neglected 
my  duty  ?"  exclaimed  the  gouvernante,  enraged  beyond  bounds 
at  this  display  of  insubordination  in  one  whose  spirit  she  had 
left  no  means  untried  to  bend  to  her  will,  and  forgetting  her- 
self in  the  passion  of  the  moment,  enforced  her  words  by  what 
is  termed  a  sound  box  on  the  ear. 

"  Now  go  and  tell  mamma,  pretty  dear  ;  or  papa,  if  you  like 
it  better."  Miss  Grahame  said,  in  a  whining  tone. 

But  Lilla  answered  her  not.  A  crimson  flush  for  tno  mo- 
ment spread  over  her  very  temples  at  th«  infliction  of  this  in- 
dignity, which  very  quickly  gave  way  to  z.  deadly,  almost  livid 
paleness,  on  which  the  marks  of  Miss  Malison's  ready  fingers 
were  the  only  spots  of  red.  Without  a  word  in  reply,  she 
hastily  rose  from  the  piano  and  left  the  room. 

"  Will  she  blab?"  was  the  elegant  question  that  was  asked 
as  the  door  closed. 

':  Not  she,"  replied  Annie,  laughing.  "  She  dare  not  tell 
papa,  and  she  knows  it  is  of  no  use  appealing  to  mamma,  who 
implicitly  believes  all  you  tell  her  of  Miss  Lilla's  excessive 
obstinacy,  idleness,  and  passionate  temper  in  which  she  so  con- 
stantly indulges ;  your  deep  regrets  that  either  of  Lady  Helen 
Gnihame's  daughters  should  be  such  a  character  have  succeeded 
so  admirably.  I  have  had  such  a  struggle  to  obtain  mamma's 
promise  to  go  with  me  to-night,  that  I  really  feel  exhausted," 
and  the  young  lady  threw  herself  in  a  most  graceful  attitude 
of  listlessness  on  a  sofa  that  stood  invitingly  beside  her. 

"  But  have  you  succeeded  ?" 

•'  Admirably  !  at  length  mamma  thinks  I  am  most  amiable. 
My  persuasions  were  so  eloquent,  that  the  most  obdurate  per- 
json  could  not  have  resisted  them.  I  tried  violence  and  sulki- 
ness  at  first,  thinking  to  frighten  or  worry  her  into  compliance; 
but  finding  both  fail,  I  was  compelled  to  have  recourse  to  humi- 
liation and  persuasion.  If  it  had  continued  much  longer,  J 
should  have  choked  by  the  way  ;  it  is  quite  a  relief  to  breathe- 
freely  again.  What  do  you  think  of  her  wishing  me  to  go 
under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  to-night?  I  really  could 
hardly  control  my  horror  at  the  idea." 

"Horrible,  indeed  !  What  would  have  become  of  all  youi 
plans,  if  you  had?" 

"  My  dear  creature,  I  would  not  have  gone  with  her  foi 
worlds  ;  but,  however,  I  think  my  plans  are  in  too  gcad  train 


THE  MOTIIEE'S  RECOMPENSE.  33 

ing  for  one  night  spent  under  her  eyes  to  injure  them.  Caro- 
line is  beginning.  I  think,  to  feel  somewhat  like  a  slave  under 
this  keen  surveillance  of  her  paragon  mother,  and  to  pine  for 
the  freedom  of  thought  and  act  which  I  so  unboundedly  en- 
joy. She  only  wants  a  little  of  my  good  advice  and  better 
example,  to  become  really  a  girl  of  spirit." 

>;  But  take  care  the  spirit  you  are  calling  forth  does  not 
turn  against  you,"  observed  Miss  Malison. 

''  Not  at  all  likely,  ma  cltdre.  I  am  careful  only  to  excite 
it  to  serve  my  own  purposes  She  likes  me,  I  believe,  and  I 
can  make  her  what  I  please.  Let  her  confidence  in  her 
mother  be  once  destroyed,  you  will  see  jf  she  does  not  act  as 
foolishly  as  I  can  desire.  She  has  been  buried  in  the  country 
so  long,  she  is  a  mere  infant  with  regard  to  all  that  concerns 
a  life  of  fashion ;  and,  therefore,  will  be  gladly  lea  by  one 
she  considers  so  completely  aufait  at  its  mysteries  as  myself. 
I  used  to  like  her  in  the  country,  because  she  always  listened 
so  eagerly  to  all  I  said  about  London.  I  saw  she  envied  me 
even  when  we  were  children,  and  therefore  fancied  myself  a 
most  important  personage." 

"  And  do  you  like  her  now  ?" 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,  ckere  Malison.  You  know  I 
cannot  bear  a  rival,  and  this  girl's  dazzling  beauty  will  com- 
pletely cast  me  in  the  shade." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  her  beauty  can  be  compared  to 
yours  ?"  interrupted  Miss  Malison. 

"  Perhaps  not  in  the  sterling  worth  of  the  two,"  replied 
Annie,  glancing  complacently  on  a  large  mirror  ;  "  but  she  is 
new,  Malison — quite  new.  Her  mother  only  kept  her  so  long 
away  that  she  might  shine  with  the  greater  brilliancy  when 
introduced.  As  for  Caroline,  I  like  her,  as  far  as  she  assists 
my  plans,  and  by  her  silly,  or,  if  that  would  serve  me  better, 
criminal  conduct,  takes  somewhat  away  from  her  mother's 
perfection,  and  by  the  pain  Mrs.  Hamilton  will  feel,  gratify 
my  overpowering  detestation.  Malison,  you  look  delighted. 
Your  assistance  I  am  sure  of,  if  I  require  it ;  for  you  dislike 
this  paragon  of  her  sex  almost  as  much  as  I  do." 

'•  Indeed  I  do.  I  have  never  forgotten  nor  forgiven  her 
presumption  a  year  or  two  ago,  in  hinting  so  broadly  I  wag 
mistaken  in  my  treatment  of  Lilla,  and  that  gentleness  would 
have  much  better  effect ;  gentleness  indeed,  with  a  girl  that 
would  tire  the  patience  of  a  saint.  She  is  always  worse  after 
having  been  with  this  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  I  suppose  it  will 


34  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

be  all  over  again  now.  I  wish,  with  your  charming  plans,  mj 
dear  Miss  Grahame,  you  would  find  one  to  prevent  all  inter- 
course between  the  Hamiltons  and  your  sister." 

"  At  present,  ma  cliere,  such  a  thing  is  out  of  my  power, 
but  we  will  not  despair :  although  the  more  you  would  say 
about  Miss  Lilla  being  undeserving  of  such  indulgence,  tho 
more  papa  would  answer,  let  her  go  and  she  will  learn  to  bo 
better  there.  I  heard  him  give  mamma  peremptory  orders 
the  other  day,  when  we  prevented  her  going,  never  to  refuse 
whenever  Mrs.  Hamilton  invited  her.  Severity  is  a  most  ad- 
mirable method,  my  good  Malison  ;  you  will  break  her  spirit 
if  you  persevere,  notwithstanding  all  the  amiable  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton may  do  or  say." 

"  I  wish  I  may  ;  but  you  have  not  told  me  all  yet.  How 
proceed  your  schemes  with  Lord  Alphingham  ?" 

"  To  perfection  !  I  have  given  Caroline  a  distaste  for  ev- 
ery other  kind  of  person.  She  has  met  him,  you  know,  once 
or  twice  here,  and  that  was  sufficient  to  fascinate  her.  She 
thinks  him  the  handsomest  and  most  delightful  man  she  ever 
knew.  It  is  enough  for  Mr.  Hamilton  to  see  him  a  friend  of 
papa's  to  be  attracted  towards  him;  in  all  probability  he  will 
be  introduced  at  his  house,  and  then  my  scheme  will  be  still 
easier.  It  will  not  be  difficult  to  talk  Caroline  into  fancying 
herself  desperately  in  love  with  him.  and  he  with  her — he  is 
already  attracted;  and  when  I  see  the  aspect  of  affairs  fa- 
vorable, I  will  just  get  some  kind  friend  to  whisper  into  Mrs. 
Hamilton's  ear  some  of  the  pretty  tales  I  have  heard  of  this 
Viscount,  and  you  will  see  what  will  follow.  These  on  di(s 
are,  fortunately  for  my  plans,  only  known  among  my  coterie. 
With  us,  they  only  render  Lord  Alphingham  more  interest- 
ing ;  but  with  Mrs.  Hamilton  they  would  have  the  effect  of 
banishing  him  for  ever  from  her  presence  and  from  the  notice 
of  her  daughter:  the  catastrophe,  my  dear  creature,  shall 
be  the  perfection  of  diplomacy,  but  of  that  hereafter.  I  owe 
Lord  Alphingham  a  spite,  which  1  will  pay  off  one  day,  for  his 
desertion  of  me  the  moment  Caroline  appeared.  I  may  do  all 
I  wish  with  one  word.  All  my  present  intention  is,  by  a  gra- 
dual yet  sure  process,  to  undermine  Caroline's  confidence  in 
her  mother,  and  make  me  her  confidante  instead,  and  if  I  do 
that,  the  rest  is  easy." 

'•  You  know  you  have  never  failed  in  any  scheme,  there- 
fore you  may  feel  secure  in  this,"  replied  Miss  Malison,  with 
ready  flattery  ;  for  she  knew  Miss  Gralrarne's  love  of  designing 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE  35 

»nd  really  felt  gratified  at  any  plan  tending  to  injure  Mrs. 
Haniilton,  whom  she  detested  with  all  the  malevolence  of  a 
oiean  and  grovelling  mind,  which  despised  the  virtue  that  was 
too  exalted  for  its  comprehension. 

Some  little  time  longer  this  amiable  pair  conversed,  but 
their  further  conversation  it  is  needless  to  record.  We  have 
already  seen  that  Emmeline  Hamilton's  prejudices  againt  Annie 
Grahame  was  not  unfounded,  and  that  at  present  is  enough. 
Before,  however,  we  quit  Lady  Helen's  mansion,  we  may  say  a 
few  words  on  the  character  of  Lilla,  in  whom,  it  may  be  recol- 
lected, Mrs.  Hamilton  had  ever  felt  interest  mfficient  to  in- 
dulge a  hope  that  she  might  render  her  one  day  a  greater 
comfort  to  her  father  than  either  of  his  other  children.  As  a 
child,  her  temper  was  naturally  good,  though  somewhat  hahty 
and  self-willed  ;  high-spirited,  but  affectionate  to  a  degree  that 
would  have  made  the  task  of  training  and  instruction  easy  to 
any  one  who  possessed  sufficient  gentleness  to  win  her  affection, 
and  with  patience,  yet  firmness,  to  guide  her  in  the  right  way. 
Unfortunately.  Miss  Malison  possessed  neither;  extremely  pas- 
sionate herself,  where  her  interests  did  not  interfere  to  control 
it,  she  was  not  at  all  the  person  to  guide  a  passionate  child. 
Severity  was  her  weapon,  and  every  means  used  to  break  the 
spirit,  which  she  could  plainly  perceive  would  soon  endeavor  to 
throw  her  off  her  control.  Lilla  revolted  at  this  treatment, 
and  many  evil  qualities  were  thus  introduced  in  her  disposi- 
tion, which,  when  they  foil  under  her  eye,  Mrs.  Hamilton  was 
convinced  was  completely  the  fruits  of  mistaken  manage- 
ment. From  being  merely  hasty, -her  passionate  anger  and 
hatred  of  her  governess  had  now  increased  to  such  height,  as 
to  be  really  alarming  not  only  to  her  weak-minded  mother,  but 
to  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who,  however,  was  certainly  never  aware  of 
their  extent ;  for  before  her  Lilla  was  generally  gentle  and 
controlled.  Something  always  occurred  to  call  forth  these 
bursts  of  passion  in  Lady  Helen's  presence,  and  consequently, 
the  actual  conduct  of  Lilla  confirmed  the  statement  of  Miss 
Malison,  as  to  her  violence  and  other  evil  qualities.  Mr.  Gra- 
hame, too.  was  compelled  to  believe  all  that  was  told  him,  and 
his  sternness  towards  his  unhappy  child  frequently  caused  her 
to  fly  from  .his  presence  in  dread ;  although  her  warm  heart 
yearned  towards  him  with  such  deep  affection,  which  could  ho 
have  guessed  one-half  of  its  extent,  would  have  twined  her 
fondly  round  his  heart,  and  forced  him  to  examine  more 
strictly  than  he  did  the  conduct  of  Miss  Malison.  Lilla's  dis 


36  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE 

like  to  her  more  favored  sister  was  almost  as  violent  as  thai 
she  bore  to  her  governess ;  and  the  conviction  that  all  htt 
mother's  family  looked  on  her  as  a  passionate,  evil-minded  girl, 
of  course,  increased  every  bitter  feeling.  Often,  very  often, 
did  Mrs.  Hamilton  long  to  implore  Mr.  Grahame  tu  dismiss 
Miss  Malison,  and  place  Lilla  under  the  care  of  some  lady 
more  fitted  for  the  task  ;  but  she  felt  that  such  advice  might  be 
looked  upon  with  some  justice  by  Lady  Helen's  friends  as  most 
unwarrantable  interference.  Miss  Malison  had  been  most 
highly  recommended  to  Lady  Helen  by  her  mother,  the 

Duchess  of .  and  as,  in  the  opinion  of  that  branch  of  the 

family,  Annie  abundantly  displayed  the  /rood  effects  of  her 
management,  it  was  very  naturally  supposed  that  Lilla's  oppo- 
site character  proceeded  from  an  innate  evil  disposition,  arid 
not  from  any  fault  in  her  governess.  She  was  now  nearly 
fourteen,  and  each  year  Mrs.  Hamilton's  hopes  for  the  future 
worth  of  her  character  became  fainter  ;  yet  still  she  determined 
to  do  all  in  her  power  to  counteract  Miss  Malison's  plans,  and 
subdue  Lilla's  fearful  passions,  and  those  longings  for  revenge, 
not  only  on  her  governess  but  her  sister,  which,  by  many  little 
things,  she  could  perceive  were  lurking  round  her  heart.  Mon- 
trose  Grahame  had  been,  as  we  already  know,  from  his  earliest 
youth  the  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  and  notwithstand- 
ing the  increasing  cares  of  their  respective  families,  this  friend- 
ship had  continued,  and,  if  possible,  increased,  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton  sharing  the  sentiments  of  her  husband,  the  qualities 
of  Grahame  speedily  caused  him  to  become  her  friend  like- 
wise She  had  ever  seen  with  regret  his  sternness  to  his 
children,  she  saw  also  that  he  was  pained,  deeply  pained,  aa 
their  characters  became  more  matured ;  and,  spite  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  task,  her  benevolent  mind  determined  to  leave 
no  means  untried  to  make  one  child  at  least  his  comfort. 
Lilla's  affection  for  her  was  as  violent  as  her  other  feelings, 
and  on  that  she  resolved  at  first  to  work.  It  was  strange,  too, 
how  devotedly  attached  this  wild  and  headstrong  girl  became 
to  one,  who  of  all  others  appeared  least  suited  to  her,  and  that 
one  the  mild  and  pensive  Ellen.  It  appeared  as  if  it  were  a 
relief  to  meet  one  so  widely  different  to  herself,  and  therefore 
she  loved  her.  The  high  spirits  and  animation  of  Emmeline 
appeared  less  congenial  to  her  affections  than  the  gentle  sweet- 
ness of  Ellen.  Caroline  was  Annie's  friend,  and  tliat  was 
enough  for  her ;  not  ev<jn  her  being  Mrs.  Hamilton's  daughter 
could  make  her  an  object  of  interest.  Ou  the  day  we  havo 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  37 

LK'ntioned,  Lilla  had  sat  for  above  an  hour  in  her  room  ;  in- 
dignation at  the  insult  she  had  received  swelling  in  every  vein, 
and  longing  with  sickening  intensity  for  some  means  to  free 
herself  from  such  galling  thraldom.  She  did  not  give  vent  to 
her  injured  feelings  in  tears,  but  her  countenance  so  clearly 
expressed  the  emotions  of  her  heart,  that  it  actually  startled  a 
servant  who  entered  with  a  message — a  request  from  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  that  her  young  friend  would  spend  that  evening 
with  her  daughter  and  niece.  Lilla  started  up  with  a  wild 
exclamation  of  delight,  and  the  anticipation  of  th<3  evening 
hours  enabled  her  to  obey  with  haughty  calmness  the  sum- 
mons of  Miss  Malison.  Before,  however,  she  departed  on  hei 
visit,  a  fresh  ebullition  had  taken  place  between  the  sisters  in 
the  presence  of  their  mother,  to  the  great  terror  of  Lady 
Helen,  whose  irritation  at  Lilla's  violence  increased,  as  she 
could  perceive  nothing  in  Annie's  words  or  manner  to  call 
for  it.  Had  she  been  less  indolent,  she  might  easily  have 
discovered  that  her  elder  daughter  never  permitted  a  single 
opportunity  to  escape  without  eliciting  Lilla's  irritability.  As 
it  was,  she  coldly  rejected  the  offered  caresses  the  really  affec- 
tionate girl  would  have  lavished  on  her,  as  she  wished  her 
good  night,  and  therefore  it  was  with  a  heart  bursting  with 
many  mingled  emotions  she  sought  the  happy  home  of  her  be- 
loved friends. 

There  gladly  will  we  follow  her,  for  the  scenes  of  violence 
and  evil  passion  we  have  slightly  touched  on,  are  not  subjects 
on  which  we  love  to  linger. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THERE  was  thought,  deep  thought,  engraved  on  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton's expressive  countenance,  as  she  sat  beside  a  smaH  table, 
her  head  leaning  on  her  hand,  anxious,  perhaps  even  painful, 
visions  occupying  her  reflective  mind.  The  evening  was  gra- 
dually darkening  into  twilight,  but  still  she  did  not  move,  nor 
was  it  till  a  well-known  tap  sounded  at  the  door,  and  her  hus- 
band" stood  before  her,  that  she  looked  up. 

11  Will  you  not  let  your  husband  share  these  anxious 
thoughts,  my  Emmeline  ?"  he  said,  as  he  gazed  earnestly  on 
her  face. 

"  My  husband  may  perhaps  think  them  silly  and  unfound- 
ed fancies,"  she  replied,  with  a  faint  smile. 


38  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  He  is  so  prone  to  do  so,'1  answered  Mr.  Hamilton,  in  an 
accent  of  playful  reproach  ;  "  but  if  you  will  not  tell  me,  I 
must  guess  them — you  arc  thinking  of  our  Caroline  !" 

"  Arthur,  I  am,':  she  said,  with  almost  startling  earnestness  ; 
'•  oh.  you  cannot  tell  how  anxiously  !  1  knew  not  whether  I 
am  right  to  expose  her  to  the  temptations  of  the  world ;  I 
know  her  disposition,  I  see  the  evils  that  may  accrue  from  it, 
and  yet,  even  as  if  I  thought  not  of  their  existence,  I  expose 
her  to  them.  Oh,  my  husband,  can  this  be  right?  can  I  bo 
doing  a  parent's  duty?" 

'•  We  siiould  not,  my  beloved,  be  fulfilling  the  duties  of  our 
station,  did  we  not  sometimes  mingle  in  society:  all  our  duty 
is  not  comprised  in  domestic  life.  It  is  when  we  retain  our 
integrity  unsullied,  our  restraining  principles  unchanged  in 
the  midst  of  temptations,  that  we  show  forth,  even  to  the 
thoughtless,  the  spirit  that  actuates  us,  and  by  example  may 
do  good.  Besides,  remember,  dearest,  we  are  not  about  ti>  enter 
into  continued  and  incessant  dissipation,  which  occupies  the  ex- 
istence of  so  many  ;  we  have  drawn  a  line,  and  Caroline  loves  her 
parents  too  well  to  expect  or  wish  to  pass  its  boundary.  Remem- 
ber, too,  the  anxious  fears  which  were  yours,  when  Percy  was 
about  to  enter  scenes  of  even  stronger  temptation  than  those 
which  will  surround  his  sister ;  and  have  they  had  foundation  ? 
Has  not  the  influence  of  his  mother  followed  him  there,  and  re- 
strained him  even  at  the  moment  of  trial,  and  will  not  the  in- 
fluence of  that  mother  do  the  same  for  Caroline?1' 

"  Percy  is,  indeed,  all  my  heart  could  wish/'  replied  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  still  somewhat  sadly;  "but  his  disposition  is  dif 
ferent  to  that  of  Caroline's.  I  know  his  confidence  in  me  is 
such,  and  his  affection  so  strong,  that  for  my  sake  he  would  do 
more  than  those  who  but  slightly  know  him  would  imagine. 
When  a  son  really  loves  his  mother,  it  is  a  different,  perhaps  a 
more  fervid,  feeling  than  that  ever  known  by  a  daughter.  He 
feels  bound  to  protect,  to  cherish,  and  that  very  knowledge  of 
power  heightens  his  affections." 

"You  do  not  doubt  your  daughters' love,  my  Emmeline? 
must  I  accuse  you  of  injustice,  too  ?" 

'•  No,  dearest  Arthur,  I  do  not  doubt  their  love  ;  for  my 
Emmeline  I  do  not  tremble.  Her  confidence  I  shall  never 
lose ;  her  affections,  however  I  may  be  called  upon  to  exert 
my  authority,  will  never  waver,  and  completely  opposite  as  are 
the  feelings  with  which  she  and  Percy  regard  me,  their  love 
may  be  equally  intense.  But  forgive  me,  my  dear  husbuud,  I 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  39 

may  be  unjust,  and  if  I  am  may  my  child  forgive  me ;  I  am 
not — oh  that  I  were — equally  confident  in  my  Caroline.  She 
loves  me,  but  that  affection,  I  know,  does  not  prevent  her 
thinking  me  harsh  and  unkind,  if  my  wishes  interfere  with 
hers.  My  authority  is  not  the  same  with  her  as  it  is  to  her 
sister  and  cousin.  She  seeks  another  confidential  friend  be- 
sides her  mother,  for  she  dreads  my  opinions  differing  from 
hers.  I  have  marked  h«r  thus  in  early  childhood,  and  it  still 
exists,  though  her  temper  is  more  controlled,  her  disposition 
more  improved.  The  last  few  years  she  has  been  thro'wn  al- 
most entirely  with  me,  and  not  much  above  a  twelvemonth 
since  she  shrank  from  the  idea  of  confiding  in  any  one  as  jhe 
did  in  me." 

"  And  while  that  confidence  exits,  my  Emmeline,  you  surely 
h.ive  no  right  to  fear/' 

'•  But  it  is  waning,  Arthur.  The  last  month  I  know,  I  feel 
it  is  decreasing.  She  is  no  longer  the  same  open-hearted  girl 
with  me  as  she  was  so  lately  at  Oakwood.  She  is  withdraw- 
ing her  confidence  from  her  mother,  to  bestow  it  on  one  whom 
I  feel  assured  is  unworthy  of  it." 

"  Nay,  Em  incline,  your  anxiety  must  be  blinding  you  ;  you 
are  too  anxious." 

His  wife  answered  him  not  in  words,  but  she  raised  her 
expressive  eyes  to  his  face,  and  he  saw  they  were  filled  with 
tears. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  beloved  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  folded  her 
to  his  bosom,  struck  with  sudden  self-reproach.  "  Have  my 
unkind  words  called  forth  these  tears?  forgive  me,  my  best 
love ;  I  think  I  love  my  children,  but  I  know  not  half  the 
depths  of  a  mother's  tenderness,  my  Emmeline,  nor  that  clear- 
sightedness which  calls  for  disquietude  so  much  sooner  in  her 
gentle  heart  than  in  a  father's.  But  can  we  in  no  way  pre- 
vent the  growth  of  that  intimacy  of  which  I  know  you  disap- 
prove ?" 

"  No,  my  dearest  Arthur,  it  must  now  take  its  course.  Pain 
as  it  is  to  me.  I  will  not  rudely  check  my  child's  affections,  that 
will  not  bring  them  back  to  me.  She  may,  one  day,  discover 
her  error,  and  will  then  gladly  return  to  that  love,  that  tender- 
ness, of  which  she  now  thinks  but  lightly.  I  must  endeavor 
to  wait  till  that  day  comes,  with  all  the  patience  I  can  teach 
my  heart  to  feel,"  she  added,  with  a  smile.  "  Perhaps  I  am 
demanding  more  than  is  my  due.  It  is  not  often  we  find 
young  girls  willing  to  be  contented  with  their  mother  ouly  as 


40  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

a  friend;  they  pine  for  novelty,  for  companions  of  their  own 
age,  whom  they  imagine  can  sympathize  better  in  their  feelings, 
A  child  is  all  in  all  to  a  mother,  though  a  parent  is  but  ono 
link  in  the  life  of  a  child  ;  yet  my  children  have  so  long  looked 
on  me  as  a  friend,  that,  perhaps,  I  feel  this  loss  of  confidence 
the  more  painfully." 

"  But  you  will  regain  it,  my  Emmeline ;  our  Caroline  is 
only  dazzled  now,  she  will  soon  discover  the  hollowncss  of 
Annie's  professions  of  everlasting  friendship." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  shook  her  head. 

':  I  doubt  it,  my  dear  husband.  The  flattering  warmth  with 
which  Annie  first  met  Caroline  has  disappointed  me.  I  thought 
and  hoped  that  here,  surrounded  by  all  her  fashionable  ac- 
quaintances, she  would  rather  have  neglected  her  former 
friends,  and  Caroline's  pride  taking  umbrage,  their  intimacy 
would  have  been  at  once  dissolved.  Instead  of  this,  Annie 
never  fails  to  treat  her  with  the  most  marked  distinction,  evi- 
dently appearing  to  prefer  her  much  above  her  other  friends  ; 
and,  therefore,  as  in  this  instance  Caroline  has  found  my  warn- 
ings and  suspicions  needless  and  unjust,  she  is  not  likely  to  per- 
mit my  opinion  of  Annie  to  gain  much  ascendency." 

';  But  deceived  as  we  have  been  in  this  instance,  my  dear 
Emmeline,  may  we  not  be  so  in  other  points  of  Annie's  cha- 
racter? She  is  evidently  devoted  to  fashion  and  fashionable 
pleasures,  but  still  there  may  be  some  good  qualities  lurking 
round  her  heart,  which  her  intimacy  with  Caroline  may  bring 
forward." 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  fervently, 
though  somewhat  doubtingly.  "  For  her  father's  sake,  as  well 
as  that  of  my  child's,  I  wish  her  disposition  may  be  different 
to  that  which  I.  perhaps  uncharitably,  believe  it.  You  must 
give  me  a  portion  of  your  sanguine  and  trusting  hopes,  my 
dearest  Arthur,"  she  continued,  fondly  laying  her  hand  in  his. 

Mr.  Hamilton  returned  a  playful  answer,  and  endeavored  to 
turn  the  thoughts  of  his  wife  to  other  and  more  pleasurable 
subjects.  Anxiety  such  as  hers  could  not  be  entirely  dis- 
pelled, but  it  was  lessened,  for  she  had  imparted  it  to  her 
husband,  and  his  watchful  care  would  combine  with  her  own  to 
guard  their  child. 

Very  different  were  Caroline's  feelings  on  this  important 
night.  Mrs.  Hamilton's  fears  and  Annie's  hopes  were  both 
well  founded.  We  have  known  the  character  of  Caroline  from 
&  child ;  and  though  the  last  three  or  four  yeais  it  had  so  iu> 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  41 

proved,  that  at  Oakwood  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  venturer!  TO  ban- 
ish fear,  and  indulge  in  every  pleasing  hope,  yet  there  was  a 
degree  of  pride  still  remaining,  tliat  revolted  very  frequently 
from  the  counsels  even  of  her  mother;  that  high  and  inde- 
pendent spirit  sometimes  in  secret  longed  to  throw  off  the 
very  slight  restraint  in  which  she  felt  held  at  home.  She  could 
not  bear  to  feel  that  she  was  in  any  way  controlled ;  she  long- 
ed for  the  exercise  of  power,  and  by  the  display  of  that  beauty, 
tiiose  qualities,  she  knew  she  possessed,  force  herself  to  be 
acknowledged  as  a  girl  of  far  more  consequence  than  she  ap- 
peared to  be  when  in  the  quiet  halls  of  Oakwood.  There 
nothing  ever  occurred  to  call  these  feelings  forth,  but  they 
were  only  dormant,  and  in  London  they  obtained  much  great- 
er sway.  She  felt  more  controlled  than  ever  by  her  mother. 
Secretly  she  pined  to  free  herself  from  that  which  she  magni- 
fied into  thraldom,  but  which  was  but  the  watchful  tenderness 
of  a  devoted  parent;  and  when  the  representations,  sympathy, 
and  persuasions  of  Annie  were  listened  to,  no  wonder  these 
feelings  increased.  Cautiously  Miss  Grahame  had  worked : 
she  continually  spoke  of  the  freedom  she  enjoyed ;  she  intro- 
duced her  friend  to  some  young  ladies  who  were  continually 
speaking  of  the  delights  of  independence  both  in  act  and  word. 
Once  introduced,  they  said  they  were  emancipated  from  the 
labor  of  the  schoolroom,  they  could  employ  themselves  as  they 
liked,  go  out  when  they  pleased,  and  their  mothers  never  in- 
terfered with  their  amusements,  except  to  see  thai  tlipy  were 
becomingly  dressed,  chaperon  them  to  balls,  and  second  all 
their  efforts  at  fascination. 

The  restraint  which,  when  compared  with  these  Caroline 
could  not  but  feel  was  hers  at  home,  of  course  became  more 
and  more  intolerable.  In  confidence,  she  imparted  to  Annie 
her  discontent.  For  the  first  time  she  confided  hi  another 
feelings  she  shrunk  from  imparting  to  her  mother,  and  once 
such  a  confidential  intimacy  commenced,  she  neither  could  nor 
would  draw  back.  Annie  artfully  appeared  to  soothe,  while 
in  reality  she  heightened  the  discontent  and  even  indisrnatioo 
of  her  friend.  Yes;  Caroline  by  slow  degrees  became  even 
indignant  at  the  conduct  of  that  mother  whose  every  thought, 
whose  most  fervent  prayer  was  for  the  .happiness  of  her  chil- 
dren ;  and  she  looked  to  this  night  as  the  beginning  of  a  new 
era.  when  she  allowed  herself  to  hope,  with  the  assistance  ot 
Annie,  she  would  gradually  escape  from  control,  and  act  ad 
other  girls  of  spirit  did. 


42  THE  MOTHER'S  REUOMPEXSE. 

There  was  another  subject  on  which,  by  the  advice  of 
Annie.  Caroline  carefully  refrained  frcm  speaking  at  home, 
and  that  was  Lord  Alphingham,  a  handsome  and  elegant  vis- 
count, who  it  may  be  remembered  had  been  mentioned  in 
Annie's  conversation  with  Miss  Malison  ;  and  yet  it  would 
appear  strange  that  such  was  Miss  Grahame'a  counsel,  when 
Mr.  Hamilton  frequently  spoke  of  the  viscount  with  every 
mark  of  approbation  due  to  his  public  conduct;  of  his  private, 
little  was  known,  and  still  less  inquired.  He  was  famous  in 
the  Upper  House — an  animated  and  eloquent  speaker — se- 
conding and  aiding  with  powerful  influence  all  Grahame's  en- 
deavors in  tlte  Lower  House,  and  rendering  himself  to  the  lat- 
ter a  most  able  and  influential  friend.  His  brilliant  qualities, 
both  as  a  member  of  parliament  and  of  polite  society,  rendered 
him  universally  courted  ;  yet  notwithstanding  this.  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton had  never  invited  him  to  his  house. 

'•  His  public  character,  as  far  at  lea.jt  as  it  meets  our  eye, 
is  unquestionably  worthy  of  admiration,"  he  had  said  one  day 
to  his  wife,  ';  but  I  know  nothing  more  ;  of  his  private  charac- 
ter and  conduct  I  am  and  must  remain  ignorant,  and  there- 
fore I  will  not  expose  my  children  to  the  fascination  of  his  so- 
ciety in  the  intimacy  of  home." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  had  agreed  with  him.  but  it  required  rot 
the  "intimacy  of  home"  to  give  Annie  an  opportunity  of  per- 
suading Caroline  towards  secretly  accepting  his  attentions,  and 
making  an  impression  in  his  favor  on  her  heart;  and  the  latter 
looked  to  her  entree  with  the  more  pleasure,  as  she  hoped,  and 
with  some  justice,  it  would  give  lier  many  more  opportunities 
of  meeting  him  than  she  now  enjoyed.  She  saw  before  her,  in 
imagination,  a  long  train  of  captives  whom  she  would  enslave, 
still  Lord  Alphingham  in  all  stood  pre-eminent;  and  visions  of 
varied  nature,  but  all  equally  brilliant,  floated  before  her  eyes, 
as  she  prepared  for  the  grand  ball  which,  for  the  first  time  iu 
her  life,  she  was  about  to  join. 

The  business  of  the  toilette  was  completed,  and  we  might 
forgive  the  proud  smile  of  exultation  which  curled  round  her 
lip.  as  she  gazed  on  the  large  pier  glass  which  reflected  her 
whole  figure.  The  graceful  folds  of  the  rich  white  silk  that 
formed  her  robe,  suited  well  with  the  tall  and  commanding 
form  they  encircled.  The  radiant  clasp  of  diamonds  suturing 
the  braid  of  pearls  which  twined  the  dark  glossy  hair,  glittered 
with  unusual  brilliancy  on  that  noble  yet  haughty  brow,  and 
heightened  the  dazzling  beauty  of  her  countenance.  The  dark 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  43 

eves  sparkling  with  animation,  her  cheek  possessing  the  rose 
of  buoyant  youth  and  health,  the  Grecian  nose,  the  lip,  which 
even  pride  could  not  rob  of  its  beauty,  all  combined  to  form  a 
face  lovely  indeed.  Fanny  had  gazed  and  admired  her  young 
lady  with  suppressed  exclamations  of  delight,  which  were 
strangely  at  variance  with  the  sigh  that  at  that  instant  sounded 
on  Caroline's  ear  ;  she  turned  hastily  and  beheld  her  mother, 
who  was  gazing  on  her  with  looks  of  such  excessive  tenderness, 
that  a  strange  pang  of  self-reproach  darted  through  her  heart, 
although  it  was  instantly  banished  by  the  fancy,  that  if  it  was 
with  a  sigh  her  mother  regarded  her  on  such  a  night,  how 
could  she  look  for  sympathy  in  the  pleasure  then  occupying 
her  mind.  At  Oakwood  every  feeling,  every  anticipation. 
would  have  been  instantly  imparted,  but  now  she  only  longed 
to  meet  Annie,  that  to  her  all  might  be  told  without  restraint. 
Painful,  indeed,  was  this  unwonted  silence  of  a  child  to  the 
find  heart  of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  but  she  refused  to  notice  it. 
Much,  very  much,  did  she  wish  to  say,  but  she  saw  by  the 
countenance  of  her  daughter  it  might  be  considered  mistimed; 
yet  to  launch  the  beautiful  girl  she  saw  before  her  into  the 
labyrinth  of  the  world,  without  uttering  one  word  of  the 
thoughts  which  were  thronging  on  her  mind,  she  felt  was  im- 
possible. They  might  not  have  the  effect  she  wished,  yet  she 
would  do  her  duty.  Desiring  Fanny  to  take  her  young  lady's 
shawl  down  stairs,  she  gently  detained  Caroline  as  she  was 
about  to  follow  her. 

"  Listen  to  me  but  for  a  few  minutes,  my  love,"  she  said,  in 
that  affectionate  yet  impressive  tone,  which  seldom  failed  to 
arrest  tlie  attention  of  her  children,  "and  forgive  me,  if  my 
words  fall  harshly  and  coldly  on  your  excited  fancy.  I  know 
well  the  feelings  that  are  yours,  though  you  perhaps  think  I  do 
not,  by  the  involuntary  sigh  you  heard,  and  I  can  sympathize 
with  them,  though  lately  you  have  refused  to  seek  my  sympa- 
thy. Bright  as  are  your  anticipations,  reality  for  a  time  will 
be  still  brighter.  Brilliant  will  be  the  scenes  of  enchantment 
in  which  you  will  mingle. — brilliant,  indeed,  for  you  are  beau- 
tiful, my  Caroline — and  admiration  on  all  sides  will  be  your 
own.  Why  should  you  look  on  me  with  surprise,  my  child? 
that  beauty  on  which  perhaps  my  heart  has  often  dwelt  too 
proudly,  is  not  my  gift  nor  of  your  creation.  The  Great 
Being  who  has  given  you  those  charms  of  face  and  form  will 
mark  how  His  gift  is  used;  and  oh,  forget  not  for  one  moment 
His  all-seeing  eye  is  as  much  upon  you  in  the  crowded  ball  aa 


44  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

in  the  retirement  of  your  own  room.  You  will  be  exposed  to 
more  temptations  than  have  yet  been  yours ;  the  most  danger- 
ous temptations,  adulation,  triumph,  exciting  pleasures  of  every 
kind,  will  be  around  you.  The  world  in  radiant  beauty  will 
loudly  call  upon  you  to  follow  it  alone,  to  resign  all  things  to 
become  its  votary  ;  the  trial  of  prosperity  will  indeed  be  yours. 
Caroline,  my  child,  for  my  sake,  if  not  for  your  own.  resist 
th">m  all.  My  happiness  is  in  your  hands.  Seek  your  God  in 
this  ordeal,  even  more  than  you  would  in  that  of  adversity ; 
there  the  spirit  naturally  flies  from  earth,  here  it  clings  tena- 
ciously to  the  world.  Pray  to  Him  to  resist  ti.e  temptations 
that  will  surround — implore  Him  to  teach  you  the  best  use  of 
those  charms  He  has  bestowed  on  you.  Forsake  Him  not; 
Caroline,  I  conjure  you,  be  not  drawn  away  from  Him.  Do 
not  let  your  thoughts  be  so  wholly  engrossed  by  pleasure  as  10 
prevent  your  bestowing  on  Him  but  one  hour  of  your  day. 
Let  me  clasp  my  child  to  my  heart,  when  we  return  to  Oak- 
wood,  unsullied,  untouched  by  the  stains  of  tlie  world.  Let  me 
have  the  blessed  comfort  of  seeing  my  Caroline  return  to  the 
home  of  her  childhood  the  same  innocent  happy  being  she  was 
when  she  left.  I  have  ever  endeavored  to  make  you  happy,  to 
give  you  those  pleasures  you  naturally  desire,  to  form  your 
character  not  only  for  the  happiness  of  this  world,  but  for  that 
of  the  next ;  then  if  you  are  ever  tempted  to  do  wrong,  if  no 
higher  consideration  bids  you  pause,  think  on  your  mother, 
Caroline  ;  remember  my  happiness  or  misery  greatly  depends 
on  you,  and,  oh,  if  you  have  ever  loved  me,  pause  ere  you  pro- 
ceed." 

"  Mother,  do  not  doubt  me  ;  Caroline  Hamilton  will  never 
sully  thi  name  she  bears,"  replied  Caroline,  her  eyes  flashing, 
and  speaking  proudly,  to  conceal  the  emotions  her  mother's 
words  had  involuntarily  produced. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  gazed  on  the  haughty  and  satisfied  security 
the  features  of  her  child  expressed.  A  more  softened  feeling 
would  at  that  moment  better  have  pleased  the  yearning  heart' 
of  the  mother,  but  she  checked  the  rising  sigh  of  disappoint- 
ment, and  folding  Caroline  to  her  bosom,  she  imprinted  a  fond 
kiss  on  her  noble  brow,  and  murmuring,  "  God  in  heaven  bless 
you,  my  child,  and  grant  you  sufficient  strength,"  they  descended 
the  stairs  together. 

Brilliant  indeed  was  the  scene  that  met  the  dazzled  eyes  of 
Caroline,  as  she  entered  the  elegant  suite  of  rooms  of  tho 
Duchess  of  llothbury.  The  highest  rank,  the  greatest  talent, 


THE    MOTHER'S    RECOMPENSE.  45 

the  loveliest  of  beauty's  daughters,  the  manliest  and  noblest  of 
her  sons,  were  all  assembled  in  that  flood  of  light  which  every 
apartment  might  be  termed.  Yet  could  the  varied  counte- 
nances of  these  noble  crowds  have  clearly  marked  the  charac- 
ter within,  what  a  strange  and  varied  page  in  the  book  of  human 
life  might  that  ball  have  unfolded. 

But  various  as  are  the  characters  that  compose  an  assem- 
blage such  as  this,  the  tone  is  generally  given  by  the  character 
and  manner  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  and  her  Grace  the  Duchess 
of  Rothbury  was  admirably  fitted  for  the  position  she  filled.  A 
daughter  of  fashion,  bred  up  from  her  earliest  years  in  scenes 
of  luxury  and  pomp,  she  had  yet  escaped  the  selfishness,  the 
artificial  graces,  which  are  there  generally  predominant.  She 
had  married  early  in  life,  a  marriage  a  la  mode,  that  is  to  say, 
not  of  love,  but  of  interest  on  the  part  of  her  parents,  and  on 
her  own,  dazzled,  perhaps,  by  the  exalted  rank  of  the  man  who 
had  made  her  an  offer  of  his  hand.  They  were  happy.  The 
highly-principled  mind  of  the  Duchess  revolted  from  that  con- 
duct, which  would,  even  in  the  on  dit  of  a  censorious  world, 
have  called  the  very  faintest  whisper  on  her  name;  and  her 
husband,  struck  by  the  unwavering  honor  and  integrity  of  her 
conduct,  gradually  deserted  the  haunts  of  ignoble  pleasures 
which  he  had  been  wont  to  frequent,  and  paid  her  those  marks 
of  consideration  and  respect,  both  in  public  and  private  life, 
which  she  so  greatly  deserved.  A  large  family  had  been  the 
fruits  of  this  union,  all  of  whom,  except  her  two  youngest 
daughters  and  two  of  her  sons,  were  married,  and  to  the  satis- 
faction of  their  parents.  There  was  a  degree  of  reserve, 
amounting  to  severity,  in  the  character  of  the  Duchess,  which 
prevented  that  sarye  affectionate  confidence  between  her  and  her 
children  as  subsisted  in  Mr.  Hamilton's  family.  Yet  she  had 
been  a  kind  and  careful  mother,  and  her  children  ever  proved, 
that  surrounded  as  she  constantly  was  by  the  fashionable  and 
the  gay,  she  had  presided  over  the  education  of  her  daughters, 
and  had  been  more  than  usually  particular  in  the  choice  of 
governesses  Violent  as  she  might  be  considered  in  her  preju- 
dices for  and  against,  yet  there  was  that  in  her  manner  which 
alike  prevented  the  petty  feelings  of  dislike  and  envy,  and 
e  jually  debarred  her  from  being  regarded  with  any  of  that 
warm  affection,  for  which  no  one  imagined  how  frequently  she 
had  pined.  She  stood  alone,  respected,  by  many  revered,  and 
she  was  now  content  with  this,  though  her  youth  had  longed 
for  somewhat  more.  Her  chosen  friend,  spite  of  the  difference 


46  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

of  rank,  had  been  Mr.  Hamilton's  mother,  and  she  had  watched 
with  the  jealousy  of  true  friendship  the  object  of  Arthur  Ham- 
ilton's love. 

A  brief  yet  penetrating  survey  of  Emmeline  Manvers'  cha- 
racter she  took,  and  was  satisfied.  The  devotion  of  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton, for  so  many  years,  to  her  children,  she  had  ever  admired, 
and  frequently  defended  her  with  warmth  when  any  one  ven- 
tured before  her  to  condemn  her  conduct.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton  regarded  her  with  reverence  and  affection,  and  were 
gratified  at  that  kindness  which  insisted  that  t'ae  entrte  of 
Caroline  should  take  place  at  her  house. 

The  Earl  and  Countess  Elmore  were  also  pre-eminent  among 
the  guests — young,  noble,  exquisitely  lovely,  the  latter  at  once 
riveted  all  eyes,  yet  by  the  graceful  dignity  of  her  manner, 
repelled  all  advances  of  familiarity.  She  might  have  been, 
conscious  of  her  charms,  she  could  not  fail  to  be,  but  she  only 
valued  them  as  having  attracted  towards  her  the  man  she 
loved.  She  only  used  them  to  endear  him  to  his  home  ;  and 
it  was  when  alone  with  the  Earl,  that  the  sweet  playfulness  of 
her  character  was  displayed  to  its  full  extent,  and  scarcely 
could  he  then  believe  her  the  wame  being  who  in  society 
charmed  as  much  by  her  dignity  and  elegance,  as  by  her  sur- 
passing beauty.  The  family  of  the  Marquis  of  Malvern  were 
also  present;  they  had  been  long  known  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  who  were  glad  to  resume  an  intimacy  which  had 
been  checked  by  their  retirement,  but  which  had  ever  beep 
remembered  with  mutual  pleasure.  The  Earl  of  St.  Eval 
eldest  son  of  the  Marquis,  might  have  been  thought  by  many, 
who  only  knew  him  casually,  as  undeserving  of  the  high  renown 
he  enjored  ;  and  many  young  ladies  would,  have  wondered  at 
Emmeline  Hamilton's  undisguised  admiration.  Handsome  he 
certainly  was  not ;  yet  intelligence  and  nobleness  were  stamped 
upon  that  broad  straight  brow,  and  those  dark  eyes  were  capa- 
ble at  times  of  speaking  the  softest  emotions  of  the  human 
heart.  But  it  was  only  when  he  permitted  himself  to  speak 
with  energy  that  his  countenance  was  displayed  to  advantage, 
and  then  the  bright  rays  of  intellect  and  goodness  which  gilded 
every  feature,  aided  by  the  eloquent  tones  of  his  full  rich  voice, 
would  have  made  the  most  careless  turn  and  look  again,  and 
ask  why  they  admired  :  but  such  times  were  few.  Reserved. 
almost  painfully  so.  he  was  generally  prone  in  such  scenes  as 
this  to  stand  alone,  for  few  indeed  were  those  of  either  sex  with 
whom  the  soul  of  Eugene  St.  Eval  could  hold  commune  ;  but 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  47 

tliis  night  there  was  more  animation  than  usual  glittering  in 
his  dark  eyes.  He  was  the  first  of  the  admiring  crowd  to  join 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton's  party,  and  petition  for  the  hand  of 
Caroline  in  the  next  quadrille.  It  was  with  a  smile  of  proud 
satisfaction  her  father  relinquished  her  to  the  young  mail,  for 
she  had  consented,  although  the  watchful  eye  of  her  mother 
observed  her  glance  round  the  room,  as  if  in  search  for  some 
other,  and  a  shade  of  disappointment  pass  over  her  brow,  that 
said  her  search  was  fruitless  ;  that  feeling  was  but  momentary, 
however.  She  joined  the  festive  throng,  and  her  young  heart 
beat  quicker  as  she  met  the  many  glances  of  undisguised  admi- 
ration fixed  constantly  upon  her.  Seldom  had  Mr.  Hamilton 
been  so  beset  as  he  was  that  night  by  the  number  of  young  men 
who  pressed  forward  to  implore  him  for  an  introduction  to  his 
beautiful  daughter  ;  and  Caroline's  every  anticipation  of  tri- 
umph was  indeed  fulfilled.  Her  mother  was  right.  Reality 
was  in  this  case  far  more  dazzling  than  even  imagination  had 
been.  There  were  many  in  that  splendid  scene  equally,  per- 
haps even  more  beautiful  than  Caroline  Hamilton,  but  she 
possessed  the  charm  of  which  'almost  all  around  her  were 
deprived,  that  of  novelty.  She  was,  indeed,  a  novice  amid 
scenes  of  fashion,  and  the  genuine  pleasure  her  countenance 
expressed,  appeared  a  relief  when  compared  to  many  around 
her.  The  name  of  Hamilton  had  never  been  entirely  forgot- 
ten in  London.  Their  singularity  in  living  so  long  in  unbroken 
retirement  had  been  by  many  ridiculed,  by  others  condemned, 
as  an  attempt  to  appear  better  than  their  neighbors  ;  and  many 
were  the  speculations  as  to  whether  the  saintly  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton  A'ould  really  do  such  a  wicked  thing  as  introduce 
their  daughters  into  society  ;  or  whether  they  would  keep  the 
poor  girls  in  the  country  like  nuns,  to  be  moped  to  death. 
Great,  therefore,  was  the  astonishment  of  some,  and  equally 
great  the  pleasure  to  others,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hai^ttton 
reappeared  amongst  their  London  friends  ;  arid  that  night  the 
warm  greetings  of  many  old  friends  who  thronged  around  them, 
eager  to  introduce  to  their  notice  the  young  members  of  their 
families,  afforded  a  pleasing  satisfaction  to  the  heart  of  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  whose  gentle  courtesy  and  winning  smile  they  found 
had  not  in  the  least  deserted  her.  The  feelings  of  a  mother. 
E'.velled  warmly  within  her  as  she  gazed  on  her  child  ;  her  foud 
heart  throbbed  with  chastened  pride,  as  she  marked  the  un- 
feigned and  respectful  admiration  Caroline  received,  and  these 
emotions,  combined  with  the  pleasure  she  felt  At  beholding 


48  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

again  well-remembered  faces,  and  hearing  the  glad  tones  of 
eager  greeting,  caused  this  evening  to  be  equally  as  pleasura- 
ble to  her,  though  in  a  different  way.  as  it  was  to  Caroline. 

The  attentions  of  Eugene  St.  Eval  to  Miss  Hamilton  con- 
tinued as  unintermitting  as  they  were  respectful  the  whole  of 
that  night ;  and  Caroline,  if  she  did  not  encourage,  certainly 
forbade  them  not.  She  listened  to  him  with  more  attention 
she  appeared  more  animated  with  him  than  with  any  of  her 
other  partners,  one.  perhaps,  alone  excepted,  and  yet  she  had 
taught  her  young  heart  to  receive  impressions  to  his  prejudice, 
which  Annie  never  permitted  an  opportunity  to  pass  without 
carefully  instilling.  Why  did  she  then  permit  his  attentions  ? 
She  knew  not ;  while  listening  to  his  voice,  there  was  a  fasci- 
nation about  him  she  could  not  resist,  but  in  her  solitary  hours 
she  studiously  banished  his  image  to  give  place  to  one  whom, 
by  the  representations  of  Annie,  she  persuaded  herself  that 
she  loved  alone. 

Genuine,  indeed,  had  been  the  enjoyment  of  Caroline 
Hamilton,  from  the  first  moment  she  had  entered  the  ball- 
room ;  but  if  it  could  be  heightened,  it  was  when,  about  the 
middle  of  the  evening,  Lord  Alphingham  entered.  A  party 
of  gay  young  men  instantly  surrounded  him.  but  breaking  from 
them  all,  he  attached  himself  the  greater  part  of  the  night  to 
Mr.  Hamilton.  Only  two  quadrilles  he  danced  with  Caroline, 
but  they  were  enough  to  aid  the  schemes  of  Annie.  She  was 
at  hand  to  excite,  to  an  almost  painful  degree,  the  mind  of  her 
friend,  to  speak  in  rapturous  praise  of  Lord  Alphingham,  to 
chain  him  now  and  then  to  her  side,  and  yet  so  contrive,  that 
the  whole  of  his  conversation  was  with  Caroline;  and  yet  the 
conduct  of  Annie  Grahame  had  been  such  that  night  as  rather 
to  excite  the  admiration  than  the  censure  of  Mr.  Hamilton. 
Playfully  he  combated  the  prejudice  of  his  wife,  who  as  sport- 
iveLkowned  that  Miss  Grahame's  conduct  in  society  was  differ- 
ent to  that  she  had  anticipated ;  but  her  penetrative  mind  felt 
not  tlie  more  at  ease  when  she  thought  on  the  friendship  that 
subsisted  between  Annie  and  her  child. 

"Am  I  dreaming,  or  is  it  Mrs.  Hamilton  I  again  behold  ?" 
exclaimed  an  elderly  gentleman,  as  she  came  forward,  and 
hastily  advancing,  seized  both  her  hands,  and  pressed  them 
with  unfeigned  warmth  and  pleasure,  which  greeting  Mrs. 
Hamilton  as  cordially  returned.  He  was  a  very  old  friend  of 
,ner  father's,  and  had  attained  by  promotion  his  present  high 
rank  of  Admiral  of  the  Blue,  but  had  been  the  first  captain 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  49 

voider  whose  orders  her  lamented  brother  sailed.  Very  many, 
therefore,  were  the  associations  that  filled  her  mind  as  she  be- 
Tield  him,  and  her  mild  eyes  for  a  moment  glistened  in  uncon- 
trollable emotion. 

'•  How  very  many  changes  have  taken  place  since  we  have 
come  alongside,  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  the  old  veteran  said,  gazing 
on  the  blooming  matron  before  him  with  almost  paternal 
pleasure.  "  Poor  Delmont !  could  his  kind  heart  have  borne 
up  against  the  blow  of  poor  Charles's  fate,  he  surely  would  have 
been  happy,  if  all  the  tales  I  hear  of  his  daughter  Emineline 
be  true." 

"  Come  and  judge  for  yourself,  Sir  George ;  my  home 
must  ever  be  open  to  my  father's  dearest  friend,"  replied 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  endeavoring  by  speaking  playfully  to  conceal 
the  painful  reminiscences  called  forth  by  his  words,  "  I  will 
not  vouch  for  the  truth  of  any  thing  you  may  have  heard  about 
us  in  London.  You  must  contrive  to  moor  your  ship  into  the 
harbor  of  Oakwood.  and  thus  gratify  us  all." 

u  Ay,  ay ;  take  care  that  I  do  not  cast  anchor  there  so 
loi.g.  that  you  will  find  the  best  thing  will  be  to  cut  the  cables, 
send  me  adrift,  and  thus  get  rid  of  me,"  replied  the  old  sailor, 
delighted  at  her  addressing  him  in  nautical  phrase.  "  Your 
appearance  here  has  belied  half  the  stories  I  heard ;  so  now 
that  you  have  given  me  permission,  I  shall  set  sail  to  discover 
the  truth  of  the  rest." 

"  You  heard,  I  suppose,  that  Mr.  Hamilton  never  intended 
his  children  to  visit  London  ?  They  were  too  good,  too — • 
wiiat  may  I  term  it? — too  perfect  to  mingle  with  their  fellow- 
creatures  ;  is  not  that  it,  Admiral?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, v'.th  a  smile. 

"  Ay,  ay ;  something  very  like  it. — but  glad  to  see  the 
wind  is  changed  from  that  corner.  Don't  like  solitude,  parti- 
cularly for  young  folks, — and  how  many  are  here?" 

"  Of  my  children  ?"  The  veteran  nodded.  ';  But  one,  my 
eldest  girl.  I  do  not  consider  her  sister  quite  old  enough  to 
be  introduced." 

"  And  you  left  her  in  harbor,  and  only  permitted  one 
frigate  to  cruise.  If  she  had  any  of  her  uncle  Charles's  spirit, 
she  would  have  shown  some  little  insubordination  at  that  piece 
of  discipline,  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  said  the  old  man,  joyously. 

"  Not  if   my    authority  is  ^Bfclished   somewhat  like  Sit 
George's,  on  the  basis  of  affection,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
again  smiling. 
3 


50  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.   - 

u  Ay,  you  have  learnt  that  secret  of  government,  have 
you  ?  Now  who  would  think  this  was  the  little  quiet  girl  I 
had  dandled  on  my  knee,  and  told  her  tales  of  storm  and  wa*r 
that  made  her  shudder?  And  where  are  your  sons  ?" 

"  Both  at  college." 

"  What,  neither  of  them  a  chip  of  the  old  block,  and 
neither  of  them  for  the  sea?  Don't  like  their  taste.  N« 
spirit  of  salt-water  within  them." 

"  But  neither  of  them  deficient  in  spirit  for  a  life  on  shore. 
But,  however,  to  set  your  heart  at  ease,  for  the  naval  honor  of 
our  family,  Sir  George,  I  have  a  nephew,  who,  I  think,  some 
few  years  hence  will  prove  a  brave  and  gallant  son  of  Neptune. 
The  accounts  we  have  of  him  are  most  pleasing.  He  has 
inherited  all  poor  Charles's  spirit  and  daring,  as  well  as  that 
true  courage  for  which  you  have  said  my  brother  was  so  re- 
markable." 

"  Glad  of  it — glad  of  it;  but  what  nephew?  who  is  he? 
A  nephew  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  will  not  raise  the  glory  of  the 
Delmont  family ;  and  you  had  only  one  brother,  if  I  remem- 
ber rightly/'' 

"  Have  you  quite  forgotten  the  beautiful  girl  who.  when  I 
last  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  in  such  a  scene  as  this, 
was  the  object  of  universal  attraction  ?  You  surely  remember 
my  father's  favorite  Eleanor,  Sir  George?" 

'•  Eleanor — Eleanor — let  me  think ;"  and  the  old  sailor  for 
a  moment  put  himself  in  a  musing  attitude,  and  then  starting, 
exclaimed,  "  to  be  sure  I  do  ;  the  loveliest  girl  I  ever  cast 
eyes  upon  ; — and  what  has  become  of  her  ?  By  the  by.  there 
was  s^me  story  about  her,  was  there  not  ?  She  chose  a  husband 
for  herself,  and  ran  off,  and  broke  her  poor  father's  heart. 
Where  is  she  now  ?" 

"  Let  her  faults  be  forgotten,  my  dear  Sir  George."  replied 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  with  some  emotion.  "  They  were  fully,  pain- 
fully repented.  Let  them  die  with  her." 

"  Die  !  Is  she,  too,  dead  ?  What,  that  graceful  sylph, 
that  exquisite  creature  I  see  before  me  now,  in  all  the  pride  of 
conscious  loveliness  !"  and  the  veter£yayi|ew  his  rough  hand 
across  his  eyes  in  unfeigned  emotio/f-  ftrnHP  hastily  recovering 
himself,  he  said,  "  and  this  boy^-flris  sailor  is  her  son.  I 
can  hardly  believe  it  possible.  Why.  he  surely  cannot  be  old 
enough  to  <ro  *.i  sea."  '*&  » 

"  You  forget  the  number  of  years  that  have  passed.  Sir 
George.  Edward  is  now  eighteen,  as  old,  if  not  older,  than 
hia  mother  was  when  you  last  saw  her." 


-.- 

THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  51 

"  And  when  did  poor  Eleanor  die  ?" 

'•'  Six  years  ago.  She  bad  been  left  a  widow  in  India,  and 
only  reached  her  native  land  to  breathe  her  last  in  my  arms. 
You  will  be  pleased,  I  think,  with  her  daughter,  though,  on 
second  thought,  perhaps,  she  may  not  be  quite  lively  enough 
for  you ;  however,  I  must  beg  your  notice  for  her,  as  her  at- 
tachment to  her  brother  is  so  excessive,  that  all  relating  to  the 
sea  is  to  her  in  the  highest  degree  interesting." 

"  And  do  your  sister's  children  live  with  you — had  their 
father  no  relations? 

"  None ;  and  even  if  he  had,  I  should  have  petitioned  to 
bring  them  up  and  adopt  them  as  my  own.  Poor  children, 
when  their  mother  died,  their  situation  was  indeed  melancholy. 
Helpless  orphans  of  ten  and  scarcely  twelve,  cast  on  a  strange 
land,  without  one  single  friend  to  whom  they  could  look  for 
succor  or  protection.  My  heart  bled  for  them,  and  never 
once  have  I  regretted  my  decision." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  glowing  cheek  in  admiration, 
and  pressing  her  hand,  he  said  warmly,  prefacing  his  words,  as 
he  always  did,  with  the  affirmative  "  ay,  ay." 

"  Your  father's  daughter  must  be  somewhat  different  to 
others  of  her  rank,  I  must  come  and  see  you,  positively  I 
must  Wind  and  tide  will  be  strongly  against  me.  if  you  do 
not  see  me  in  a  few  days  anchoring  off  your  coast  No  storms 
disturb  your  harbor,  I  fancy.  But  what  has  become  of  your 
husband — your  daughter  ?  let  me  see  all  I  can  belonging  to 
you.  Come,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  crowd  sail,  and  tow  me  at  once 
to  my  wished-for  port." 

Entering  playfully  into  the  veteran's  humor,  Mrs.  Hamil 
ton  took  his  arm  and  returned  to  the  ball-room,  where  she  was 
speedily  joined  by  her  husband,  who  welcomed  Sir  George 
Wilmot  with  as  much  warmth  and  cordiality  as  his  wife  had 
done,  and  as  soon  as  the  quadrille  was  finished,  a  glance  from 
her  ino'her  brought  Caroline  and  her  partner,  Lord  Alphing- 
ham,  to  her  side. 

The  astonishment  of  Sir  George,  as  Mrs.  Hamilton  intro- 
duced the  blooming  girl  before  him  as  her  daughter,  was  so 
irresistibly  comic,  that  no  one  present  could  prevent  a  smile  , 
and  that  surprise  was  heightened  when,  in  answer  to  his  sup- 
position thai,  she  must  be  the  eldest  of  Mrs.  Hamilton's  family, 
Mrs.  Hamilton  replied,  that  he^^ro  sons  were  both  older,  and 
Caroline  was.  indeed,  the  youngest  but  one. 

11  Then  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  the  old  veteran 


62  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

said,  "Old  Time  has  been  playing  tricks  with  me,  and  drawing 
me  much  nearer  eternity  than  I  at  all  imagined  myself,  or  else 
he  has  stopped  with  me  and  gone  on  with  you." 

"  Or,  rather,  my  good  friend,"  replied  Mr.  Hamilton.  ':you 
can  only  trace  the  hand  of  Time  upon  yourself,  having  no 
children  in  whose  increasing  years  you  can  behold  him.  and, 
therefore,  he  is  very  likely  to  slip  the  cable  before  you  aro 
aware;  but  with  us  sucli  cannot  be." 

li  Ay,  ay,  Hamilton,  suppose  it  must  be  so — wish  I  had  some 
children  of  my  own,  but  shall  come  and  watch  Time's  progress 
on  these  instead.  Ah.  Miss  Hamilton,  why  am  I  such  an  old 
man  ?  I  see  all  the  youngsters  running  off  witli  the  pretty 
girls,  and  I  cannot  venture  to  ask  one  to  dance  with  me." 

';  May  I  venture  to  ask  you  then.  Sir  George?  The  name 
of  Admiral  Wilmot  would  be  sufficient  for  any  girl,  I  should 
think,  to  feel  proud  of  her  partner,  even  were  he  much  older  and 
much  less  gallant  than  you,  Sir  George,"  answered  Caroline, 
with  ready  courtesy,  for  she  had  often  heard  her  mother  speak 
of  him,  and  his  manner  pleased  her. 

'•  Well,  that's  a  pretty  fair  challenge,  Sir  George;  you  must 
take  up  the  glove  thrown  from  so  fair  a  hand,"  observed  Lord 
Alphingham.  with  a  smile  that,  to  Caroline,  and  even  to  her 
mother,  rendered  his  strikingly  handsome  features  yet  hand, 
somer.  •'  Sball  I  relinquish  my  partner  ? 

"  No,  no,  Alphingham;  you  are  better  suited  to  her  here. 
At  home — at  your  own  home.  Miss  Hamilton,  one  night,  I  shall 
Remind  you  of  your  promise,  and  we  will  trip  it  together.  Now 
I  can  only  thank  you  for  your  courtesy;  it  has  done  my  heart 
good,  and  reconciled  me  to  my  old  age." 

"  I  may  chance  to  find  a  rival  at  home.  Sir  George.  If  you 
see  my  sister,  y^u  will  not  be  content  with  me.  She  will  use 
every  effort  to  surpass  me  in  your  good  graces  ;  for  when  I 
tell  her  I  have  seen  the  brave  admiral  whose  exploits  have 
often  caused  her  cheek  to  flush  with  pride — patriot  pride  she 
calls  it — she  will  be  wild  till  she  has  seen  you." 

'•  Will  she — will  she.  indeed  ?  Come  and  see  her  to-morrow ; 
tell  her  so,  with  an  old  man's  love,  and  that  I  scolded  your 
mother  heartily  for  not  bringing  her  to. night.  Mind  orders, 
let  me  see  if  you  are  sailor  enough  instinctively  to  obey  an  old 
captain's  orders." 

"  Trust  me,  Sir  George,'*%eplicd  Caroline,  laughingly,  and 
»  young  man  at  that  instant  addressing  her  by  name,  she  bow- 
ed gracefully  to  the  veteran,  and  turned  towards  him  who 
epoke. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  53 

"  Miss  Hamilton,  I  claim  your  promise  for  this  quadrille," 
said  Lord  Henry  D'Este. 

'•  Good  bye,"  said  Sir  George.  "I  shall  claim  you  for  ray 
partner  when  I  see  you  at  home." 

"  St  Eval  dancing  again.  Merciful  powers  !  we  certainly 
shall  have  the  roof  tumbling  over  our  heads,  exclaimed  Lord 
Henry,  as  he  and  Caroline  found  themselves  vis  a  vis  to  the 
earl  of  whom  he  spoke. 

•'  Why,  is  it  so  very  extraordinary  that  a  young  man  should 
dance'?"  demanded  Caroline. 

;'  A  philosopher,  as  he  is,  decidedly.  You  do  not  know 
him,  Miss  Hamilton.  He  travelled  all  over  Europe,  I  believe, 
really  for  the  sake  of  improvement,  instead  of  enjoying  all  the 
fun  he  might  have  had;  he  stored  his  brain  with  all  sorts  of 
knowledge,  collecting  material  and  stealing  legends  to  write  a 
book.  I  went  with  him  part  of  the  way,  but  became  so  tired 
of  my  companion,  that  I  turned  recreant  and  fled,  to  enjoy  a 
more  spirited  excursion  of  my  own.  I  tell  him,  whenever  I 
want  a  lecture  on  all  subjects.  I  shall  come  to  him.  I  call  him 
the  Walking  Cyclopaedia ;  and  only  fancy  such  a  personage 
dancing  a  quadrille.  What  lady  can  have  the  courage  to. turn 
over  the  leaves  of  the  Cyclopaedia  in  a  quadrille?  let  me  see. 
Oh,  Lady  Lucy  Melville,  our  noble  hostess's  daughter.  She 
pretends  to  be  a  bit  of  a  blue,  therefore  they  are  not  so  ill- 
matched  as  I  imagined  ;  however,  she  is  not  very  bad — not  a 
deep  blue,  only  just  tinged  with  celestial  azure.  Sweet  crea- 
ture, how  you  will  be  edified  before  your  lesson  is  over.  Look, 
Miss  Hamilton,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Cyclopaedia.  That 
good  lady  has  been  the  last  seven  years  dancing  with  all  her 
night  and  main  for  a  husband.  There  is  another,  striving  by 
an  air  of  elegant  hauteur,  to  prove  she  is  something  very  great, 
when  really,  she  is  nothing  at  all.  There's  a  girl  just  intro- 
duced, as  our  noble  poet  says." 

"Take  care,  take  caro,  Lord  Henry;  you  are  treading  on 
dangerous  ground,"  exclaimed  Caroline,  unable  to  prevent 
laughing  at  the  comic  manner  in  which  her  companion  criticised 
the  dancers.  ':  You  forget  that  I  too  have  only  just  been  re- 
leased, and  this  is  only  my  first  glimpse  of  the  world." 

"  You  do  me  injustice,  Miss  Hamilton.  I  am  too  delight- 
fully and  refreshingly  reminded  of  that  truth  to  forget  it  for  one 
instant.  You  may  have  only  just  made  your  debut,  but  you 
have  not  been  schooled  and  scolded,  and  frightened  into  pro' 
priety  as  that  unfortunate  girl  has.  If  she  has  smiled  once 


64  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

too  naturally,  spoken  one  word  too  much,  made  one  step  wrong; 
or  said  sir,  my  lord,  your  lordship,  once  too  often,  she  will  have 
such  a  lecture  to-morrow,  she  will  never  wish  to  go  to  a  ball 
again." 

"  Poor  girl !"  said  Caroline,  in  a  tone  of  genuine  pity,  which 
caused  a  smile  from  her  partner. 

"  She  is  not  worthy  of  your  pity,  Miss  Hamilton ;  she  is 
hardened  to  it  all.  What  a  set  we  are  dancing  with,  men  and 
women,  all  heartless  alike ;  but  I  want  to  know  what  magic 
wand  has  touched  St.  Eval.  I  do  believe  it  must  be  your  eyes, 
Miss  Hamilton.  He  talks  to  his  partner,  and  looks  at  you; 
tries  to  do  two  things  at  once,  listen  to  her  and  hear  your  voice, 
You  are  the  enchantress,  depend  upon  it." 

A  glow  of  triumph  burned  on  the  heart  of  Caroline  at  these 
words.  For  though  rather  prejudiced  against  St.  Eval  by  the 
arts  of  Annie,  still,  to  make  an  impression  on  one  to  whom  she 
had  heard  was  invulnerable  to  all,  to  make  the  calm,  and  some 
said,  severely  stoical,  St.  Eval  bend  beneath  her  power,  was  a 
triumph  she  determined  to  achieve.  That  spirit  of  coquetry, 
so  fatal  to  her  aunt,  the  ill-fated  Eleanor,  was  as  innate  in  the 
bosom  of  Caroline ;  no  opportunity  had  yet  afforded  to  give  it 
play,  still  the  seeds  were  there,  and  she  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  now  presented.  Even  in  her  childhood.  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton had  marked  this  fatal  propensity.  Every  effort  had  been 
put  in  force  to  check  it,  every  gentle  counsel  given,  but  arrest- 
ed in  its  growth  though  it  was,  erased  entirely  it  could  not  be. 
The  principles  of  virtue  had  been  too  carefully  instilled,  for 
coquetry  to  attain  the  same  ascendency  and  indulgence  with 
Caroline  as  it  had  with  her  aunt,  yet  she  felt  she  could  no  lon- 
ger control  the  inclination  which  the  present  opportunity  affor- 
ded her  to  use  her  power. 

"Do  you  go  to  the  Marchioness  of  Malvern's  fete,  next 
week?"  demanded  Lord  Henry.  Caroline  answered  in  the 
affirmative. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.  The  "Walking  Cyclopaedia  may  make 
himself  as  agreeable  there  as  he  has  sn  marvelously  done  to- 
night. You  will  be  in  fairy  land.  He  has  brought  flowera 
from  every  country  and  reared  them  for  his  mother,  till  they 
have  become  the  admiration  of  all  for  miles  around.  I  told 
him  he  looked  like  a  market  gardener,  collecting  fl  >wers  from 
every  place  he  went  to.  I  dragged  him  away  several  times, 
und  told  him  be  certainly  would  be  taken  for  a  country  booby, 
arid  scolded  him  for  demeaning  his  rank  with  such  ignoble 
olorsures,  and  what  wise  answer  do  you  think  he  made  me?" 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  55 

K  A  very  excellent  one,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  Or  it  would  not  come  from  such  a  learned  personage, 
Miss  Hamilton.  Really  it  was  so  philosophic,  I  was  obliged 
to  learn  it  as  a  lesson  to  retain  it.  That  he,  superior  as  he 
djomed  himself,  and  that  wild  flower  which  he  tended  with  so 
much  care,  were  alike  the  work  of  Infinite  Wisdom,  and  as 
Buch,  the  stm'y  of  one  could  not  demean  the  other.  I  stared 
at  him.  and  for  \he  space  of  a  week  dubbed  him  the  Preaching 
Pilgrim;  but  I  was  soon  tired  of  that,  and  resumed  h'*5  former 
one,  which  comprises  all  I  wonder  at  what  letter  the  walking 
volume  will  be  opened  at  his  mother's  fete?" 

'•I  should  imagine  B."  said  Caroline,  smiling. 

••  IJ — B — what  does  B  stand  for V    I  have  forgotten  how  to 

l — let  me  see.  Ah  !  I  have  it. — excellent,  admirable  !  Miss 
Hamilton.  Lecture  on  Botany  from  the  Walking  Cyclopaedia 
— bravo  !  We  had  better  scrape  up  all  our  learning,  to  prove 
we  are  not  perfect  ignoramuses  on  the  subject." 

Caroline  laughingly  agreed;  and  the  quadrille  being  finish- 
ed. Lord  Henry  succeeded  in  persuading  her  to  accompany 
him  to  the  refreshment-room.  * 

In  the  meanwhile,  perfectly  unconscious  that  he  had  been 
the  subject  of  the  animated  conversation  of  his  vis  a  vis,  St. 
Kval  was  finding  more  and  more  to  admire  in  Miss  Hamilton. 
He  conducted  his  partner  to  her  seat  as  she  desired,  and  then 
strolled  towards  Mr.  Hamilton's  party,  in  the  hope  that  Caro- 
line would  soon  rejoin  her  mother ;  but  Annie  had  been  in  the 
refreshment  room,  and  she  did  not  reappear  for  some  little 
time.  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  at  length  been  enabled  to  seek  Lady 
Helen  Grahame.  with  whom  she  remained  conversing,  for  she 
felt,  though  the  delay  was  unavoidable,  she  partly  deserved  the 
reproach  with  which  Lady  Helen  greeted  her,  when  she  enter- 
ed, for  permitting  the  whole  evening  to  pass  without  coming 
near  her.  Mrs.  Hamilton  perceieved.  with  regret,  that  she  was 
more  fitted  for  the  quiet  of  her  own  boudoir,  than  the  glare  and 
heat  of  crowded  rooms.  Gently  she  ventured  to  expostulate 
with  her  on  her  endeavors,  and  Lady  Helen  acknowledged  she 
felt  quite  unequal  to  the  exertion,  but  that  the  persuasions  of 
her  daughter  had  brought  her  there.  She  was  too  indolent  to 
ft  Id,  she  had  seen  nothing  of  Annie  the  whole  even'ng;  nor  did 
she  wisli  to  say  anything,  that  might  increase  the  disapproba- 
tion with  which  she  sometimes  felt  though  Annie  heeded  it 
not.  Mrs.  Hamilton  regarded  her  child.  It  was  admiration, 
almost  veneration,  which  Lady  Helen  felt  for  Mrs.  Hamilton 


56  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

and  no  one  could  have  imagined  how  very  frequently  the  in- 
dolent but  well-meaning  woman  had  regretted  what  she  deemed 
was  her  utter  inability  to  act  with  the  same  firmness  that  cha- 
racterized her  friend.  She  was  delighted  nt  the  notice  Lilla 
ever  received  from  her;  but  blinded  by  the  artful  manners  of 
her  elder  girl,  she  often  wished  that  Annie  had  been  the  favor- 
ite instead.  There  was  somewhat  in  Mrs.  Hamilton's  manner 
that  night  that  caused  her  to  feel  her  own  inferiority  more  than 
ever;  but  no  self-reproach  mingled  with  vhe  feeling.  Slie 
could  not  be  like  her,  and  then  why  should  she  expoct  or  de- 
plore what  was  impossible.  Leaning  on  Mrs  Hamilton's  arm, 
she  resolved,  however,  to  visit  the  ball-room,  and  they  reached 
Mr.  Hamilton  at  the  instant  Grahame  joined  them 

"  You  here,  Grahame !"  exclaimed  his  friend,  as  he  ap- 
proached. "I  thought  you  had  forsworn  such  things." 

"I  make  an  exception  to-night,"  he  answered.  "  I  wished 
to  see  my  fair  friend  Caroline  where  I  have  longed  to  see  her." 

"  You  are  honored,  indeed,  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  Lady  Helen 
could  not  refrain  from  saying.  "  He  was  not  present  at  the 
entree  even  of  his  own  daughter" 

"  And  why  was  I  not.  L;rdy  Helen  ?  because  I  would  not 
by  my  presence  give  the  world  reason  to  say  I  also  approved 
of  the  very  early  age  at  which  Miss  Grahame  was  introduced. 
If  I  do  not  mistake,  she  is  four  months  younger  than  Caroline, 
and  yet  my  daughter  is  no  longer  a  novice  in  such  scenes  as 
these." 

Lady  Helen  shrunk  in  terror  from  the  stern  glance  of  her 
husband,  svho  little  knew  the  pain  he  inflicted;  and  Mrs  Ha- 
milton hastily,  but  cautiously  drew  her  away  to  enter  into  con- 
versation with  the  Marchioness  of  Malvern,  who  was  near  them, 
which  little  manoeuvre  quickly  removed  the  transient  cloud : 
and  though  soon  again  compelled  to  seek  the  shelter  of  tho 
qniet  little  room  she  had  quitted,  the  friendly  kindness  of  Mrs 
Hamilton  succeeded  in  making  Lady  Helen's  evening  end 
more  agreeably  than  it  had  begun. 

'•Are  you  only  just  released,  Grahame?"  demanded  Lord 
Alphingham,  who  still  remained  near  Mr.  Hamilton. 

"  You  are  less  fortunate  than  I  was,  or  perhaps  you  will 
think,  in  parliamentary  concerns,  more  so;  but  as  the  ball  was 
uppermost  in  my  thoughts  this  evening,  I  was  glad  to  lind 
myself  at  liberty  above  an  hour  ago." 

"Is  there  nothing,  then,  stirring  in  the  Upper  House?" 

«  Nothing ;  I  saw  many  of  the  noble  members  fast  asleep, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  57 

and  those  who  spoke  said  little  to  the  purpose.  When  do  yon 
gentlemen  of  the  Lower  House  send  up  your  bill  ?  it  will  be  a 
charity  to  give  us  something  to  do." 

••  We  shall  be  charitable  then  on  Friday  next,  and  I  much 
doubt  if  you  do  not  have  some  warm  debating  work.  If  we 
succeed,  it  will  be  a  glorious  triumph ;  the  Whigs  are  violent 
against  us,  and  they  are  by  far  the  strongest  party.  I  depend 
greatly  on  your  eloquence,  Alphingham." 

'•  It  is  yours  to  the  full  extent  of  its  power,  my  good  friend ; 
it  cnrries  some  weight  along  with  it,  I  believe,  and  I  would 
gladly  use  it  in  a  good  cause." 

'•  Did  you  speak  to-night,  Grahame?"  Mr.  Hamilton  asked, 
evincing  by  his  animated  countenance  an  interest  in  politics, 
which,  from  his  retired  life,  no  one  believed  that  he  possessed. 
Grahame  eagerly  entered  into  the  detail  of  that  night's  debate, 
and  for  a  little  time  the  three  gentlemen  were  absorbed  in  po- 
litics alone.  The  approach  of  Caroline  and  her  mother,  how- 
ever, caused  Grahame  suddenly  to  break  off  in  his  speech. 

':  A  truce  with  debates,  for  the  present,"  he  gayly  ex- 
claimed. ;;  Hamilton,  I  never  saw  Caroline's  extraordinary 
likeness  to  you  till  this  moment.  What  a  noble-looking  girl 
she  is  !  Ah.  Hamilton,  I  could  pardon  you  if  you  were  much 
prouder  of  your  children  than  you  are." 

An  involuntary  sigh  broke  from  his  lips  as  he  spoke,  but 
checking  it.  he  hastened  to  Caroline,  and  amused  her  with 
animated  discourse,  till  Lord  Alphingham  and  Eugene  St. 
Eval  at  tbe  same  instant  approached,  the  one  to  claim,  tho 
other  to  request,  Caroline  as  his  partner  in  the  last  quadrille 
before  supper.  The  shade  of  deep  disappointment  which 
passed  over  the  young  Earl's  expressive  countenance  as  Caro- 
line eagerly  accepted  the  Viscount's  offered  arm,  and  owned 
she  had  been  engaged  to  him  some  time,  at  once  confirmed  to 
her  flattered  fancy  the  truth  of  Lord  Henry's  words,  and  occa- 
sioned a  feeling  near  akin  to  pleasure  in  the  equally  observant 
mother.  Mrs.  Hamilton  shrunk  with  horror  at  the  idea  of  in- 
troducing her  child  into  society  merely  for  the  purpose  of 
decoying  a  husband ;  but  she  must  have  been  void  of  natural 
feeling  had  not  the  thought  very  often  crossed  her  mind,  that 
the  time  was  drawing  nigh  when  her  daughter's  earthly  destiny 
would,  in  all  probability,  be  fixed  for  ever :  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  tremblings  of  maternal  love  the  natural  wish  would 
mingle,  that  noble  rank  and  manly  virtue  might  be  the  endow- 
ments of  him  who  would  wed  her  Caroline,  and  amonsgt  thosa 
3* 


55»  THE    MOTHERS    RECOMPENSE. 

nobiw  youths  with  whom  she  had  lately  mingled,  she  had  seen 
but  t>.ie  her  fond  heart  deemed  on  all  points  worthy  of  lier 
child,  and  that  one  was  the  young  Earl  Eugene  St.  Kvai. 
That  ne  was  attracted,  her  penetrating  eye  could  scarcely 
doubt,  out  farther  she  would  not  think;  and  so  groat  was  her 
sensitiveness  on  this  head,  that  much  as  she  admired  the  young 
man,  she  was  much  more  reserved  with  him  than  she  would 
have  been  bad  she  suspected  nothing  of  his  newly-dawning 
feelings. 

St.  Evai  did  not  join  in  the  quadrille,  and  after  lingering 
by  Mrs.  Harumon  till  she  was  invited  to  the  supper-room,  he 
aroused  the  increased  merriment  of  his  tormentor.  Lord  Henry, 
by  offering  heruis  arm,  conducting  her  to  supper,  and  devoting 
himself  to  her.  he  declared,  as  if  she  were  the  youngest  and 
prettiest  girl  in  the  room. 

li  Paying  the  agreeable  to  mamma,  to  win  the  good  graces 
of  lajillc.  Admirable  diplomacy;  Lord  St.  Eval.  I  wish  you 
joy  of  your  new  talent;"  maliciously  remarked  Lord  Henry, 
as  the  Earl  nnd  his  companion  passed  him.  A  glance  from 
those  dark  eyes,  severe  enough  to  have  sent  terror  to  the  soul 
of  any  less  reckless  than  Lord  Henry,  was  St.  Eval's  only 
reply,  and  he  passed  on  ;  and  seldom  did  Mrs.  Hamilton  find  a 
companion  more  to  her  taste  in  a  supper-room  than  the  young 
Earl.  The  leaves  of  the  Walking  Cyclopaedia  were  indeed 
then  opened.  Henry  D'Este  would  have  said,  for  on  very  many 
subjects  did  St.  Eval  allow  himself  that  evening  to  converse, 
which,  except  to  his  mother  and  sisters,  were  ever  locked  iu 
the  recesses  of  his  own  reflecting  mind  ;  but  there  was  a  kind- 
ness, almost  maternal,  which  Mrs.  Hamilton  unconsciously 
used  to  every  young  person  who  sought  her  company,  and  that 
charm  the  young  and  gifted  nobleman  never  could  resist.  He 
spoke  of  her  sous  in  a  manner  that  could  not  fail  to  attract  a 
mother's  heart.  The  six  months  he  had  spent  with  them  at 
college  had  been  sufficient  for  him  to  form  an  intimate  friend- 
ship with  Percy,  whose  endeavors  to  gain  his  esteem  he  had 
been  unable  to  resist ;  while  he  regretted  that  the  reserved 
disposition  of  Herbert,  being  so  like  his  own,  had  prevented 
his  knowing  him  so  well  as  his  brother.  He  spoke  too  of  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  Mrs.  Hamilton's,  the  present  Lord  Delmont,  in 
vvhom.  as  the  representative  of  her  ancient  family,  she  was  much 
interested.  St.  Eval  described  with  eloquence  the  lovely  villa 
he  occupied  on  the  banks  of  Lago  Guardia,  near  the  frontiers 
of  the  Tyrol,  the  health  of  his  only  sister,  some  few  years 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  5S 

vounger  than  himself,  not  permitting  them  to  live  in  England ; 
ke  Iiad  given  up  all  the  invitations  to  home  and  pleasure  held 
nut  to  him  by  his  father  land,  and  retiring  to  Italy,  devoted 
himself  entirely  to  his  mother  and  sister. 

"  He  is  a  brother  and  son  after  your  own  heart.  Mrs. 
Hamilton."  concluded  St.  Eval.  with  animation,  <:  and  that  ia 
v,he  highest  compliment  I  can  pay  him." 

31  rs.  Hamilton  smiled,  and  as  she  gazed  on  the  glowing 
fcatures  of  the  young  man.  she  thought  ho  who  could  so  well 
ippreciate  such  virtues  could  not  be — nay,  she  knew  he  was 
not — deficient  in  them  himself,  and  stronger  than  ever  became 
her  secret  wish  ;  but  she  hastily  banished  it.  and  gave  her  sole 
attention  to  tho  interesting  subjects  on  which  St.  Eval  con- 
tinued to  speak. 

For  some  few  hours  after  supper  the  ball  continued,  "^ith 
even,  perhaps  more  spirit  than  it  had  commenced ;  but  St. 
Eval  did  not  ask  Caroline  to  dance  again.  He  fancied  she- 
preferred  Alphingham's  attentions,  and  his  sensitive  mind 
shrunk  from  being  again  refused.  Caroline  knew  not  the 
heart  of  him  over  whom  she  had  resolved  to  nse  her  power, 
perhaps  if  she  had,  she  would  have  hesitated  in  her  determina- 
tion. The  least  encouragement  made  his  heart  glow  with  an 
uncontrollable  sensation  of  exquisite  pleasure,  while  repulse 
bade  it  sink  back  with  an  equal  if  not  a  greater  degree  of  pain. 
St.  Ph'al  was  conscious  of  this  weakness  in  his  character;  he 
was  aware  that  he  possessed  a  depth  of  feeling,  which,  unless 
steadily  controlled,  would  tend  only  to  his  misery;  and  it  was 
f^r  this  he  clothed  himself  in  impenetrable  reserve,  and  ob- 
tained from  the  world  the  character  of  being  proud  and  disa- 
greeable. He  dreaded  the  first  entrance  of  love  within  his 
bosom,  for  instinctively  he  felt  that  his  very  sensitiveness 
would  render  the  passion  more  his  misery  than  his  joy.  "We 
are  rather  skeptics  in  the  doctrine  of  love  at  first  sight,  but  in 
this  case  it  was  fervid  and  enduring,  as  if  it  had  risen  on  the 
solid  basis  of  intimacy  and  esteem.  From  the  first  hour  he 
dad  spent  in  the  society  of  Caroline  Hamilton,  Eugene  St. 
Kvnl  loved.  He  tried  to  subdue  and  conquer  his  newly-aAvak- 
eried  feelings,  and  would  think  he  had  succeeded,  but  the  next 
hour  he  passed  in  her  society  brought  the  truth  clearer  than 
ever  before  his  eyes  :  her  image  alone  occupied  his  heart.  He 
shrunk,  in  his  overwrought  sensitiveness,  from  paying  her 
those  attentions  which  would  have  marked  his  preftrence;  he 
did  not  wish  to  excite  the  remarks  of  the  world,  nor  did  ho 
feel  that  he  possessed  sufficient  courage  to  bear  the  repulse, 


CO  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

with  which,  if  she  did  not  regard  him,  and  if  she  were  the  girl 
he  fancied  her,  she  would  check  his  forwardness.  But  hia 
heart  beat  high,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  he  controlled 
his  emotion,  when  he  perceived  that  Caroline  refused  to  dance 
even  with  Lord  Alphingham,  on  several  occasions  to  continue 
conversing  with  himself.  How  his  noble  spirit  would  have 
chafed  and  bled,  could  he  have  known  it  was  love  of  power 
and  coquetry  that  dictated  her  manner,  and  not  regard,  as  for 
the  time  he  allowed  himself  to  fancy. 

The  evening  closed,  the  noble  guests  departed,  and  day- 
light had  resumed  its  reign  over  the  earth  by  the  time  Mr. 
Hamilton's  carriage  stopped  in  Berkeley  Square.  Animatedly 
had  Caroline  conversed  with  her  parents  on  the  pleasures  of 
the  evening  during  their  drive ;  but  when  she  reached  her  own 
room,  when  Martyn  had  left  her,  and  she  was  alone,  she  was 
not  quite  sure  if  a  few  faint  whisperings  of  self-reproach  did 
not  in  a  degree  alloy  the  retrospection  of  this  her  first  glimpse 
of  the  gay  world ;  but  quickly — perhaps  too  quickly — they 
were  banished.  The  attentions  of  Lord  Alphingham — height- 
ened in  their  charm  by  Miss  Grahame's  positive  assurance  to 
her  friend  that  the  Viscount  was  attracted,  there  was  not  the 
very  slightest  doubt  of  it — and  the  proposed  pleasure  of  com- 
pelling the  proud,  reserved  St.  Eval  to  yield  to  her  fascina- 
tions, alone  occupied  her  fancy.  To  make  him  her  captive 
would  be  triumph  indeed.  She  wished,  too,  to  show  Annie 
she  was  not  so  completely  under  control  as  she  fancied ;  that 
she,  too  c~>uld  act  with  the  spirit  of  a  girl  of  fashion  ;  and  to 
choose  St.  Eval,  and  succeed — charm  him  to  her  side — force 
him  to  pay  her  attentions  which  no  other  received,  would,  in- 
deed, prove  to  her  fashionable  companions  that  she  was  not  so 
entirely  governed  by  her  mother,  so  very  simple  and  spiritless 
as  they  supposed.  Her  power  should  do  that  which  all  had 
attempted  in  vain.  Her  cheek  glowed,  her  heart  burned  with 
the  bright  hope  of  expected  triumph,  and  when  she  at  length 
sunk  to  sleep,  it  was  to  dream  of  St.  Eval  at  her  feet. 

Oh !  were  the  counsels,  the  example,  the  appeal  of  her 
mother  all  forgotten?  Was  this  a  mother's  re zorapense  J 
Alas!  alas! 

CHAPTER  IV. 

NUMEROUS  were  the  cards  and  invitations  now  left  at  Mr. 
Hamilton's  door ;  and  the  world,  in  its  most  tempting  form, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  61 

waj  indeed  spread  before  Caroline,  although,  perhaps,  com- 
pared with  the  constant  routine  of  pleasure  pursued  by  some 
young  ladies  who  attended  two  or  three  assemblies  each  of  the 
six  nights  out  of  the  seven,  her  life  could  scarcely  be  called 
irav.  Mr.  Hamilton  had  drawn  a  line,  and,  difficult  as  it  wag 
to  keop.  he  adhered  to  his  resolution,  notwithstanding  the  en- 
treaties of  his  friends,  and  very  often  those  of  his  daughter. 
A  d'u.ner-party  and  a  ball  he  would  somet.jnes  permit  Caro- 
1  lie  to  attend  in  one  day,  but  the  flying  from  house  to  house, 
+o  ta.ste  of  every  pleasure  offered,  he  never  would  allow.  Nor 
did  he  or  any  member  of  his  family  ever  attend  the  Opera  on 
Saturday  night,  however  great  might  be  the  attractions.  To 
Emineline  this  was  a  great  privation,  as  poetry  and  music  had 
ever  been  her  chief  delights,  and  the  loss  of  even  one  night's 
enjoyment  was  felt  severely;  but  she  acquiesced  without  a 
murmur,  appreciating  the  truth  of  her  fiber's  remark,  that  it 
was  impossible  to  pay  attention  to  the  Sabbath  duties  when 
the  previous  evening  had  been  thus  employed.  She  knew, 
too,  how  difficult  it  \vas  to  attend  to  her  studies  (due  regard 
for  which  her  parents  required  amidst  every  recreation)  on  the 
Wednesday,  with  every  air  she  had  so  delighted  in  the  previ- 
ous night  ringing  in  her  ears.  Those  who  were  eager  to  con- 
demn Mrs.  Hamilton  whenever  they  could,  declared  it  was  the 
greatest  inconsistency  to  take  Emineline  to  the  Opera,  and  per- 
mit her  to  appear  so  often  in  company  at  home,  and  yet  in 
other  matters  be  so  strict ;  why  could  she  not  bring  her  out  at 
once,  instead  of  only  tantalizing  her?  but  Mrs.  Hamilton 
could  never  do  any  thing  like  any  body  else.  Her  daughters 
were  much  to  be  "pitied;  and  as  for  her  niece,  she  must  pass  a 
miserable  life,  for  she  was  scarcely  ever  seen.  They  had  no 
doubt,  with  all  Mrs.  Hamilton's  pretensions  to  goodness,  that 
her  poor  niece  was  utterly  neglected,  and  kept  quite  in  the 
background  ;  because  she  was  so  beautiful,  Mrs.  Hamilton  was 
jealous  of  the  notice  she  might  obtain. 

So  thought,  and  so  very  often  spoke,  the  ill-natured  half  of 
the  world,  who,  in  reality,  jealous  and  displeased  at  being  ex- 
cluded from  Mr  Hamilton's  visiting  list,  did  every  thing  in 
tlieir  power  to  lessen  the  estimation  in  which  the  family  was 
held.  In  this,  however  they  could  not  succeed,  nor  in  causing 
pain  to  to  those  whom  they  wished  to  wound.  Such  petty  ma- 
lice demanded  not  a  second  thought  from  minds  so  well  regu- 
lated as  those  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton.  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
indeed,  turned  their  ill-natured  remarks  to  advantage,  for  in- 


62  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

stead  of  neglecting  or  wholly  despising  them,  she  considered 
them  'n  her  own  heart,  and  in  solitary  reflection  pondered 
deeply  if  she  in  any  way  deserved  them.  She  knew  that  the 
lesson  of  self-knowledge  is  never  entirely  learnt ;  and  she  knew 
too,  that  an  enemy  may  say  that  in  ill-will  or  malice  which  may 
have  some  foundation,  though  our  friends,  aided  by  self-love, 
may  have  hidden  the  truth  from  us.  Deeply  did  this  noble 
woman  think  on  her  plan  of  conduct;  severely  she  scrutinized 
its  every  motive,  and  she  was  at  peace.  Before  entering  upon 
it  she  had  implored  the  Divine  blessing,  and  she  felt  that,  in 
the  case  of  Emmeline  and  Ellen,  her  prayers  for  guidance  Lad 
not  been  unheeded.  Perhaps  her  conduct,  with  regard  to  the 
former,  might  have  appeared  inconsistent ;  but  she  felt  no  ill- 
will  towards  those  who  condemned,  knowing  the  disposition  of 
her  child,  and  certainly  those  who  thus  spoke  did  not. 

Although  there  ^ras  little  more  than  fourteen  months' 
difference  between  the  age  of  the  sisters,  Emmeline  was  so 
much  a  child  in  simplicity  and  feeling,  that  her  mother  felt 
assured  it  would  neither  be  doing  her  good  nor  tending  to  her 
happiness  to  introduce  her  with  her  sister ;  as.  from  the  little 
difference  in  their  ages,  some  mothers  might  have  been  inclined 
to  do.  Yet  she  did  not  wish  to  keep  her  in  such  entire  seclu- 
sion as  some,  even  of  her  friends  advised,  but  permitted  her 
the  enjoyment  of  those  innocent  pleasures  natural  to  her  t^ste. 
Emmeline  had  never  once  murmured  at  this  arrangement; 
howevei  it  interfered  with  her  most  earnest  wishes,  her  confi- 
dence in  ner  parents  was  such,  that  she  ever  submitted  to  their 
wishes  with  cheerfulness.  Mrs.  Hamilton  knew  and  sympa- 
thized in  her  feelings  at  leaving  Oakwood.  She  felt  there 
were  indeed  fer  pleasures  in  London  that  could  compensate 
to  a  disposition  such  as  Emmeline's  for  those  she  had  left. 
She  had  seen,  with  ;iy  and  thankfulness,  the  conquest  of  self 
which  her  child  had  so  perseveringly  achieved  ;  and  surely 
she  was  not  wrong  to  reward  her.  by  giving  her  every  gratifi- 
cation in  her  power,  and  endeavoring  to  make  her  as  happy 
as  she  was  at  Oakwood.  Emmeline  was  no  longer  a  child, 
and  these  pleasures  interfered  not  with  the  attention  her  pa- 
rents still  wished  her  to  bestow  on  the  completion  of  her  edu 
cation.  With  all  the  innocence  and  quiet  of  a  young  child  she 
enjoyed  the  select  parties  given  by  her  mother  with  the  same 
zest,  but  with  the  poetic  feelings  of  dawning  youth.  She  ab- 
solutely revelled  in  the  Opera,  and  there  her  mother  generally 
accompanied  her  once  a  week  An  artist  might  have  found  a 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  63 

pleasing  study  in  the  contemplation  of  that  young,  bright 
face,  as  she  sat  entranced,  every  sense  absorbed  in  the  musio 
which  she  heard,  the  varying  expression  of  her  countenance 
reflecting  every  emotion  acted  before  her.  At  such  moments 
the  fond  mother  felt  it  to  be  impossible  to  deny  the  young 
enthusiast  the  rich  treat  these  musical  recreations  afforded. 
A  smile  or  look  of  sympathy  was  ever  ready  to  meet  the  often 
uncontrolled  expressions  of  delight  which  p]mmeline  could  not 
suppress,  for  in  thus  listening  to  the  compositions  of  our  great 
masters,  even  those  much  older  than  Emmeline  can  seldom 
entirely  command  their  emotions.  Natural  as  were  the  man- 
ners of  Caroline  in  public,  they  almost  resembled  art  when 
compared  with  those  of  her  sister.  Mrs.  Hamilton's  lesson 
on  self-control  had  not  been  forgotten.  Emmeline  generally 
contrived  to  behave  with  perfect  propriety,  except  in  momenta 
of  excitement  such  as  these,  where  natural  enihusiasm  and  al- 
most childish  glee  would  have  their  play,  and  her  mother 
could  not,  would  not  check  them. 

With  regard  to  Ellen,  the  thoughtless  remarks  of  the  world 
were  indeed  unfounded,  as  all  who  recollect  the  incidents  de- 
tailed in  former  pages  will  readily  believe.  Her  health  still 
continued  so  delicate  as  frequently  to  occasion  her  aunt  some 
anxiety.  Through  the  winter,  strange  to  say,  she  had  not  suf- 
fered, but  the  spring  brought  on,  at  intervals,  those  depressing 
feelings  of  languor  which  Mrs.  Hamilton  hoped  had  been  en- 
tirely conquered.  The  least  exertion  or  excitement  caused  her 
to  suffer  the  following  day,  and  therefore,  except  at  very  small 
parties,  she  did  not  appear  even  at  home.  No  one  could  sus- 
pect from  her  quiet  and  controlled  manner,  and  her  apparently 
inanimate  though  beautiful  features,  that  she  was  as  enthusias- 
tic in  mind  and  in  the  delights  of  the  Opera  as  her  cousin 
Emmeline.  By  no  one  we  do  not  mean  her  aunt,  for  Mrs. 
Hamilton  could  now  trace  every  feeling  of  that  young  and  sor- 
rowful heart,  and  she  saw  with  regret,  that  in  her  niece's  pre- 
sent state  of  health,  even  that  pleasure  must  be  denied  her, 
for  the  very  exertion  attendant  on  it  was  too  much.  Ellen  ne- 
ver expressed  regret,  nor  did  she  ever  breathe  even  to  her  auut 
how  often,  how  very  often,  she  longed  once  again  to  enjoy  the 
fresh  air  of  Oakwood.  for  London  to  her  possessed  not  even 
the  few  attractions  it  did  to  Emmeline.  She  ever  struggled  to 
be  cheerful,  to  smile  when  her  aunt  looked  anxiously  at  her, 
and  strove  to  assure  her  that  she  was  happy,  perfectly  happy. 
Her  never  appearing  as  Emmeline  did,  and  so  very  seldom 


64  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPEXSB. 

even  at  home,  certainly  gave  matter  for  observation  to  those 
who,  seeking  for  it,  refused  to  believe  the  true  reason  of  her 
retirement.  Miss  Harcuurt,  though  she  steadfastly  refused  to 
go  out  with  her  friend — for  Mrs.  Hamilton  never  could  allow 
that  she  filled  any  situation  save  that  of  a  friend  and  relation 
of  the  family — yet  sometimes  accompanied  Emmeline  to  the 
Opera,  and  always  joined  Mrs.  Hamilton  at  home.  Many, 
therefore,  were  the  hours  Ellen  spent  entirely  alone,  but  sho 
persevered  unrepiningly  in  the  course  laid  down  for  her  by  the 
first  medical  man  in  London,  whom  her  aunt  had  consulted. 

How  she  employed  those  lonely  hours  Mrs.  Hamilton  never 
•would  inquire.  Perfect  liberty  to  follow  her  own  inclinations 
she  should  enjoy  at  least ;  but  it  was  not  without  pain  that 
Mrs.  Hamilton  so  frequently  left  her  niece.  She  knew  that 
the  greatest  privation,  far  more  than  any  of  the  pleasures  her 
cousins  enjoyed,  was  the  loss  of  her  society.  The  mornings 
and  evenings  were  now  so  much  occupied,  that  it  often  hap- 
pened that  the  Sabbath  and  the  evening  previous  were  the  only 
times  Ellen  could  have  intercourse  of  any  duration  with  her. 
She  regretted  this  deeply. for  Ellen  was  no  longer  a  child;  she 
was  at  that  age  when  life  is  in  general  keenly  susceptible  to  the 
pleasures  of  society  ;  and  reserved  as  was  her  disposition.  Mrs. 
Hamilton  felt  assured,  the  loss  of  that  unchecked  domestic 
intercourse  she  had  so  long  enjoyed  at  Oakwood  was  pain, 
though  never  once  was  she  heard  to  complain.  These  contrary 
duties  frequently  grieved  the  heart  of  her  aunt.  Often  she 
accompanied  Caroline  when  her  inclination  prompted  her  to 
remain  at  home ;  for  she  loved  Ellen  as  her  own  child,  and  to 
tend  and  soothe  her  would  sometimes  have  been  the  preferable 
duty  ;  but  she  checked  the  wish,  for  suffering  and  solitary  as 
was  Ellen,  Caroline,  in  the  dangerous  labyrinth  of  the  world, 
required  her  care  still  n^ore. 

There  are  trials  which  the  world  regards  not — trials  on 
•which  there  are  many  who  look  lightly — these  productive  of 
no  interest,  seldom  of  sympathy,  but  with  pain  to  the  sufferer; 
it  is  when  health  fails,  not  sufficiently  to  attract  notice,  but 
when  the  disordered  state  of  the  nerves  renders  the  mind  irri- 
table, the  body  weak  ;  when,  from  that  invisible  weakness,  little 
evils  become  great,  the  temper  loses  its  equanimity,  the  spirits 
their  elasticity,  we  scarcely  know  wherefore,  and  we  reproach 
ourselves,  and  add  to  our  uneasiness  by  thinking  we  are  becom- 
ing pettish  and  ill-tempered,  enervated  and  repining  ;  we  dare 
not  confess  such  feelings,  for  our  looks  proclaim  not  failing 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  65 

health,  and  who  would  believe  us?  when  the  very  struggle  for 
cheerfulness  fills  the  eye  witli  tears,  the  heart  with  heaviness, 
and  we  feel  provoked  at  our  peevishness,  and  angry  that  we  are 
so  different  now  to  what  we  have  been  ;  and  we  fancy,  changed 
as  we  are,  all  we  love  can  no  longer  regard  us  as  formerly. 
Such  are  among  the  trials  of  woman,  unknown,  frequently 
unsuspected,  by  her  nearest  and  dearest  relations ;  and  bitter 
indeed  is  it  when  such  trials  befall  us  in  early  youth,  when 
liveliness  and  buoyancy  are  expected,  and  any  departure  there- 
from is  imagined  to  proceed  from  causes  very  opposite  to  the 
ti  uth.  Such  at  present  were  the  trials  of  the  orphan  ;  but  they 
were  softened  by  the  kindness  and  sympathy  of  her  aunt,  who 
possessed  the  happy  art  of  soothing  more  effectually  in  a  few 
words  than  others  of  a  less  kindly  mould  could  ever  have  accom- 
plished. 

1 1  is  in  the  quick  perception  of  character,  in  the  adaptation 
of  our  words  to  those  whom  we  address,  that  in  domestic  cir- 
cles renders  us  beloved,  and  forms  the  fascination  of  society. 
Sympathy  is  the  charm  of  human  life,  and  when  once  that  is 
made  apparent,  we  are  not  slow  in  discovering  or  imagining 
others.  Some  people  find  the  encouragement  of  sympathy  dis- 
agreeable, for  they  say  it  makes  them  miserable  for  no  purpose. 
What  care  they  for  the  woes  and  joys  of  their  acquaintances? 
Often  a  tax,  and  never  a  pleasure.  Minds  of  such  nature  know 
not  that  there  is  a  "joy  in  the  midst  of  grief;"  but  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton did.  and  she  encouraged  every  kindly  feeling  of  her 
nature.  Previous  to  her  marriage,  she  had  been  perhaps  too 
reserved  and  shrinking  within  herself,  fancied  there  was  no  one 
of  her  own  rank  at  least  who  could  understand  her,  and  there- 
fore none  with  whem  she  could  sympathize.  But  the  greater 
confidence  of  maturer  years,  the  example  of  her  husband,  the 
emotions  of  a  \vife  and  mother,  had  enlarged  her  heart,  and 
caused  her,  by  ready  sympathy  with  others,  to  increase  her  own 
enjoyments,  and  render  herself  more  pleasing  than  perhaps,  if 
she  had  remained  single,  she  ever  would  have  been.  It  was 
this  invisible  charm  that  caused  her  to  be  admired  and  involun- 
tarily loved,  even  by  those  who,  considering  her  a  saint  at  first, 
shrunk  in  dread  from  her  society  ;  and  it  was  this  that  ren- 
dered the  frequent  trials  of  her  niece  less  difficult  to  bear. 

"  Does  my  Ellen  remember  a  little  conversation  we  had  on 
the  eve  of  her  last  birthday?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hamilton  of  her 
niece  one  evening,  as  she  had  finished  dressing,  to  attend  her 
daughter  to  the  Opera,  and  Martyn,  at  her  desire,  had  obeyed 


DO  THE    MOTHER  S    RECOMPENSE. 

Caroline's  impatient  summons,  and  left  to   Ellen   the  task  of 
fastening  her  lady's  jewels. 

Whenever  nothing  occurred  to  prevent  it.  Ellen  was  gene- 
rally with  her  aunt  at  dressing-time,  and  the  little  conversation 
that  passed  between  them  at  such  periods  frequently  rendered 
Ellen's  solitary  evening  cheerful,  when  otherwise  it  might  have 
been,  from  her  state  of  health  and  apparently  endless  task, 
oven  gloomy.  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  observed  a  more  than  usual 
depression  that  evening  in  the  manners  of  her  niece,  and  with- 
out noticing,  she  endeavored  to  remove  it.  Ellen  was  bending 
down  to  clasp  a  bracelet  as  she  spoke,  and  surprised  at  the 
question,  looked  up,  without  giving  herself  time  to  conceal  an 
involuntary  tear,  though  she  endeavored  to  remove  any  such 
impression,  by  smiling  cheerfully,  as  she  replied  in  the  affirma- 
tive. 

"  And  will  it  cheer  your  solitary  evenings,  then,  my  dear 
Ellen?"  she  continued,  drawing  her  niece  to  her.  and  kissing 
her  transparent  brow,  "  if  I  say  that,  in  the  self-denial,  patience, 
and  submission  you  are  now  practising,  you  are  doing  more 
towards  raising  your  character  in  my  estimation,  and  banish- 
ing from  remembrance  the  painful  past,  than  you  once  fancied 
it  would  ever  be  in  your  power  to  do.  I  think  I  know  its 
motive,  and  therefore  I  do  not  hesitate  to  bestow  the  meed  of 
praise  you  so  well  deserve." 

For  a  minute  Ellen  replied  not.  she  only  raised  her  aunt's 
hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it,  as  if  to  hide  her  emotion  before 
she  spoke,  but  her  eyes  were  still  swelling  with  tears  as  she 
looked  up  and  replied — 

"  Indeed,  my  dearest  aunt,  I  do  not  deserve  it.  You  do  not 
know  how  how  irritable  and  ill-tempered  I  often  feel." 

'•  Because  you  are  not  very  well,  my  love,  and  yet  you  do 
not  fee.  sufficiently  ill  to  complain.  I  sometimes  fancy  such 
a  state  of  health  as  yours  is  more  difficult  to  bear  than  a  severe 
though  short  illness,  then,  you  can,  at  least,  claim  soothing 
consolation  and  sympathy.  Now  my  poor  Ellen  thinks  she 
can  demand  neither,"  she  added,  smiling 

"  I  always  receive  both  from  you,"  replied  Ellen,  earnestly; 
"and  not  much  submission  is  required  when  that  is  the  case. 
and  I  am  told  my  health  forbids  my  sharing  in  Emmeliuc's 
pleasures." 

;:  No,  love,  there  would  not  be,  if  you  felt  so  ill  as  to  havo 
no  desire  for  them ;  but  that  is  not  the  case,  for  I  know  you 
Very  often  feel  quite  well  enough  to  go  out  with  me,  and  I  am 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  67 

jnite  sure  that  my  Ellen  sometimes  wishes  she  wero  not  so 
completely  prohibited  such  amusements." 

"I  thought  I  had  succeeded  better  in  concealing  those 
wishes."  replied  Ellen,  blushing  deeply. 

"  So  you  have,  my  dear  girl,  no  one  but  myself  suspects 
them ;  and  you  could  not  expect  to  conceal  them  from  mo, 
Ellen,  could  you,  when  Emmeline  says  it  is  utterly  impossible 
to  hide  her  most  secret  thought  from  my  mystic  wand  ?  Do 
not  attempt  more,  my  love ;  persevere  in  your  present  conduct, 
and  I  shall  be  quite  satisfied.  Have  you  an  interesting  bock 
for  to-night,  or  is  there  any  other  employment  you  prefer  ?n 

4i  You  have  banished  all  thoughts  of  gloom,  my  dear  aunt, 
and  perhaps  instead  of  reading.  I  shall  work  and  think  on 
what  you  have  said,"  exclaimed  Ellen,  her  cheek  becoming 
more  crimsoned  than  it  was  before,  and  exciting  for  the  mo- 
n.cnt  the  attention  of  her  aunt.  She  however,  soon  permitted 
it  to  pass  from  her  thoughts,  for  she  knew  the  least  emotion 
generally  had  that  effect.  Little  did  she  imagine  how  those 
solitary  hours  were  employed.  Little  did  she  think  the  cause 
of  that  deep  blush,  or  guess  the  extent  of  comfort  her  words 
had  bestowed  on  her  niece,  how  they  cheered  the  painful  task 
the  orphan  believed  it  her  duty  to  perform.  Spite  of  many 
obstac  es  of  failing  health,  she  perseveringly  continued,  although 
as  yet  she  approached  not  the  end  of  her  desires.  No  gleam 
of  light  yet  appeared  to  say  her  toil  was  nearly  over,  her  wish 
obtained. 

The  limits  of  our  tale,  as  well  as  the  many  histories  of  in- 
dividuals these  memoirs  of  the  Hamilton  family  must  embrace, 
will  not  permit  us  A.o  linger  on  the  scenes  of  gayety  in  which 
Caroline  now  mingled,  and  which  afforded  her,  perhaps,  too 
many  opportunities  for  the  prosecution  of  her  schemes ;  Miss 
Grahame's  task  was  no  longer  difficult.  Her  confidence  once 
given  to  another,  she  could  not  recall  to  bestow  it  upon  her 
mother,  from  whom,  the  more  she  mingled  in  society,  the  more 
she  became  estranged  ;  and  Annie  became  at  once  her  confi- 
dant and  adviser.  Eager  to  prove  she  was  not  the  simple- 
minded  being  she  was  believed.  Caroline  confided  her  designs, 
with  regard  to  St.  Eval.  to  Miss  Grahame,  who,  as  may  be 
supposed,  heightened  and  encouraged  them.  Had  any  one 
pointed  out  to  Caroline  she  was  acting  with  duplicity,  depart- 
ing from  the  line  of  truth  to  which,  even  in  her  childhood,  in 
the  midst  of  many  other  faults,  she  had  beautifully  and  strictly 
adhered,  she  might  have  shrunk  back  in  horror;  but  where 


68  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

•was  the  harm  of  a  little  innocent  flirtation  ?  Annie  would 
repeatedly  urge,  if  she  fancied  a  doubt  of  the  propriety  of  such 
conduct  was  rising  in  her  friend's  mind,  and  she  was  ready 
•with  examples  of  girls  of  high  birth  and  exemplary  virtues  who 
practised  it  with  impunity :  it  gave  a  finish  to  the  character  of 
a  woman,  proved  she  would  sometimes  act  for  herself,  not 
always  be  in  leading-strings  ;  it  gave  a  taste  of  power,  gratified 
her  ambition ;  in  short,  flirtation  was  the  very  acme  of  enjoy 
ment,  and  gave  a  decided  ton  before  and  after  marriage. 

St.  Eval  was  not  sanguine.  But  it  was  in  vain  he  tried  to 
resist  the  fascinations  of  the  girl  he  loved,  he  could  not  for  an 
instant  doubt  but  that  she  encouraged  him  ;  he  even  felt  grate- 
ful and  loved  her  more  for  those  little  arts  and  kindnesses  with 
which  she  ever  endeavored  to  draw  him  from  his  reserve,  and 
chain  him  to  her  side.  Could  that  noble  spirit  imagine  she 
only  acted  thus  to  afford  herself  amusement  for  the  time,  and 
prove  her  power  to  her  companions?  Could  she,  the  child  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  act  otherwise  than  honourably  1  Wo 
may  pardon  Lord  St.  Eval  for  believing  it  impossible,  but 
bitterly  was  he  deceived.  Even  her  mother,  her  penetrating 
confiding  mother,  was  deceived,  and  no  marvel  then  that  such 
should  be  the  case  with  a  comparative  stranger. 

Had  Caroline's  manner  been  more  generally  coquettish, 
Mrs.  Hamilton's  eyes  might  have  been  opened  ;  but  her  be- 
havior in  general  was  such  as  rather  to  diminish  than  increase 
those  fears  which,  before  her  child  had  joined  the  world,  had 
very  frequently  occupied  her  anxious  heart.  To  strangers 
even,  her  encouragement  of  St.  Eval  might  not  have  been  ob- 
servable, though  it  was  clearly  so  to  the  watchful  eyes  of  her 
parents,  whose  confidence  in  their  daughter's  integrity  was 
sucl  as  entirely  to  exonerate  her  in  their  minds  from  any  in- 
tention of  coquetry.  In  this  instance,  perhaps,  their  regard 
for  the  young  Earl  himself,  and  their  mutual  but  secret  wishes 
might  have  heightened  their  belief,  that  not  only  was  St.  Eval 
attracted  but  that  Caroline  encouraged  him,  and  feeling  this, 
they  regretted  that  Lord  Alphingham  should  continue  his 
attentions,  which  Caroline  never  appeared  to  receive  with  any 
particular  pleasure. 

Anxious  as  had  been  Mrs.  Hamilton's  feelings  with  regard 
to  the  friendship  subsisting  between  her  daughter  and  Annie 
Grahame,  she  little  imagined  how  painfully  the  influence  of 
the  latter  had  already  tarnished  the  character  of  the  former. 
Few  are  aware  of  the  danger  arising  from  those  very  intimate 


THE  .MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  69 

connections  which  young  women  are  so  fond  of  forming.  Every 
mother  should  study,  almost  as  carefully  as  those  of  lier  own, 
the  character  of  her  children's  intimate  friends.  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton had  done  so,  and  as  we  know,  never  approved  of  Cziro- 
line's  intimacy  with  Annie,  but  yet  she  could  not  check  their 
intercourse  while  such  intimate  friendship  existed  between  her 
husband  and  Montrose  Grahame.  She  knew,  too,  that  the 
latter  felt  pleasure  in  beholding  Caroline  the  chosen  friend  of 
his  daughter;  and  though  she  cculd  never  hope  as  Grahame 
did,  that  the  influence  of  her  child  would  improve  the  char- 
acter of  his.  she  had  yet  sufficient  confidence  in  Caroline  at 
one  time  to  believe  that  she  would  still  considei  her  mother 
her  dearest  and  truest  friend,  and  thus  counteract  the  effects 
of  Annie's  ill-directed  eloquence.  In  this  hope  she  had  already 
found  herself  disappointed  ;  but  still,  though  Caroline  refused 
her  sympathy,  and  bestowed  it,  as  so -many  other  girls  did.  on 
a  companion  of  her  own  age,  she  relied  perhaps  too  fondly  on 
those  principles  she  had  so  carefully  instilled  in  early  life,  and 
bel,ieved  that  no  stain  would  sully  the  career  of  her  much- 
loved  child.  If  Mrs.  Hamilton's  affection  in  this  instance 
completely  blinded  her,  if  she  acted  too  weakly  in  not  at  once 
breaking  this  closely-woven  chain  of  intimacy,  her  feelings, 
when  she  knew  all.  were  more  than  sufficient  chastisement. 
Could  the  noble,  the  honorable,  the  truth-loving  mother  for 
one  instant  imagine  that  Caroline,  the  child  whose  early  years 
had  caused  her  so  much  pain,  had  called  forth  so  many  tearful 
prayers — the  child  whose  dawning  youth  had  been  so  fair,  that 
her  heart  had  nearly  lost  its  tremblings — that  her  Caroline 
should  encourage  one  young  man  merely  to  indulge  in  love  of 
power,  and,  what  was  even  worse,  to  thus  conceal  her  regard 
for  another  ?  Yet  it  was  even  so.  Caroline  really  believed 
that  not  onl}  was  jhe  an  object  of  passionate  love  to  the  Vis- 
count, but  that  she  returned  the  sentiment  with  equal  if  not 
heightened  warmth,  and,  as  the  undeniable  token  of  true  love, 
she  never  mentioned  his  name  except  to  her  confidant.  In  the 
first  of  these  conjectures  she  was  undoubtedly  right;  as  sin- 
cerely as  a  man  of  his  character  could.  Lord  Alphingham  did 
love  Miss  Hamilton,  and  the  fascination  of  his  manner,  his 
insinuating  eloquence,  and  ever  ready  flattery,  all  combined, 
might  well  cause  this  novice  in  such  matters  to  believe  her 
heart  was  really  touched ;  but  that  it  truly  was  so  not  only 
may  we  be  allowed  to  doubt,  but  it  appeared  that  Annie  did 
BO  also,  by  her  laborious  efforts  to  fan  the  newly  ignited  spark 


70  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

into  a  flame,  and  never  once  permit  Caroline  to  look  into  her- 
self; and  she  took  so  many  opportunities  of  speaking  of  those 
silly,  weak-spirited  girls,  that  went  with  a  tale  of  love  directly 
to  their  mothers,  and  thus  very  frequently  blighted  their  hopes 
and  condemned  them  to  broken  hearts,  by  their  duennas' 
caprices,  that  Caroline  shrunk  from  the  faintest  wish  to  con- 
fide all  to  her  mother,  with  a  sensation  amounting  almost  to 
fear  and  horror.  Eminently  handsome  and  accomplished  as 
Lord  Alphingham  was,  still  there  was  somewhat  in  his  fea- 
tures, or  rather  their  expression,  that  did  not  please,  and 
scarcely  satisfied  Mrs.  Hamilton's  penetration.  Intimate  as 
he  was  with  Grahame,  friendly  as  he  had  become  with  her 
husband,  she  could  not  overcome  the  feeling  of  repugnance 
with  which  she  more  than  once  found  herself  unconsciously  re- 
garding him  ;  and  she  felt  pleased  that  Mr.  Hamilton  steadily 
adhered  to  his  resolution  in  not  inviting  him  to  his  house.  To 
have  described  what  she  disliked  in  him  would  have  been  im- 
possible, it  was  indefinable ;  but  there  was  a  casual  glance  of 
that  dark  eye,  a  curl  of  that  handsome  mouth,  a  momentary 
knitting  of  the  brow,  that  whispered  of  a  mind  not  inwardly 
at  peace;  that  restless  passions  had  found  their  dwelling-place 
around  his  heart.  Mrs.  Hamilton  only  saw  him  in  society: 
it  was  uncharitable  perhaps  to  judge  him  thus;  but  the  feel- 
ings of  a  mother  had  rendered  her  thus  acute,  had  endowed 
her  with  a  penetration  unusually  perceptive,  and  she  rejoiced 
that  Caroline  gave  him  only  the  meed  of  politeness,  and  that 
no  sign  of  encouragement  was  displayed  in  her  manner  to- 
wards hiir. 

That  mother's  fears  were  not  unfounded.  Lord  Alphing- 
ham loved  Caroline,  but  the  love  of  a  libertine  is  not  true  affec- 
tion, and  such  a  character  for  the  last  fourteen  years  of  his  life 
he  had  been  ;  nine  years  of  that  time  he  had  lived  on  the  Con- 
tinent, gay,  ?od  courted,  in  whatever  country  he  resided,  win- 
ning many  a  youthful  heart  to  bid  it  break,  or  lure  it  on  to 
ruin.  It  was  only  the  last  year  he  had  returned  to  England, 
and  as  he  had  generally  assumed  different  names  in  the  various 
parts  of  the  Continent  he  had  .visited,  the  adventures  of  his  life 
were  unknown  in  the  laud  of  his  birth,  save  that  they  were 
sometimes  whispered  by  a  few  in  similar  coteries,  and  then 
more  as  conjecture  than  reality.  So  long  a  time  had  elapsed, 
that  the  wild  errors  of  his  youth,  which  had  been  perhaps  the 
original  cause  of  his  leaving  England,  were  entirely  forgotten, 
ts  if  such  things  had  never  been,  and  the  Viscount  now  found 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  71 

himself  quite  as  much,  if  not  more,  an  object  of  universal  at- 
traction in  his  native  land,  than  he  had  been  on  the  Continent. 
He  was  now  about  thirty,  and  perfect  indeed  in   his  vocation. 
The  freshness,  naivete,  and  perfect  innocence  of  Caroline  had 
captivated  his  fancy  perhaps  even  more  than  it  had  ever  been 
before,  and  her  perfect  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the  fashionable 
world  encouraged  him  to  hope  his  conquest  of  her  heart  would 
be  very  easy.      He  had  found  an  able  confidant  and  advocate  in 
Miss  Grahame,  who   had  contrived  to  place  herself  with  her 
father's  friend  on  the  footing  of  most  friendly  intimacy,  and 
partly  by  her  advice  and  the  suggestions  of  his  own  heart  he 
determined  to  win  the  regard  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  before 
he  openly  paid  attentions  to  their  daughter.     With  the  former 
he  appeared  very  likely  to  succeed,  for  the  talent  he  displayed 
in  the  House,  his  apparently  earnest  zeal  for  the  welfare  of  his 
country,  her  church  and  state,  his  masterly  eloquence,  and  the 
interest  he  felt  for  Grahame,  were  all  qualities  attractive  in  the 
eyes  of  Mr.  Hamilton  ;  and  though  he  did  not  yet  invite  him  to 
his  house,  he  never  met  him  without  evincing  pleasure.     With 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  Alphingharn  did  not  find  himself  so  much  at 
ease,  nor  fancy  he  was  so  secure ;  courteous  she  was  indeed, 
but  in  her  intercourse  with  him  she  had  unconsciously  recalled 
much  of  what  Grahame  termed  the  forbidden  reserve  of  years 
past.      In  vain   he  attempted  with  her  to  pass  the  barriers  of 
universal  politeness,  and  become  intimate;  his  every  advance 
was  repelled  coldly,  yet  not  so  devoid  of  courtesy  as  to  make 
him  suspect  she  had  penetrated  his  secret  character.     Still  he 
persevered  in   unwavering  and  marked    politeness,  although 
Annie's  representations  of  Mrs.  Hamilton's  character  had  alrea- 
dy caused  him  to  determine  in  his  own  mind  to  make  Caroline 
his  wife,  with  or  without  her  mother's  approval ;  and  he  amus- 
ed himself  with  believing  that,  as  her  mother  was  so  strict  and 
stern  as  to  keep  her  children,  particularly  Caroline,  in   such 
subjection,  it  would  be  doing  the  poor  girl  a  charity  to  release 
her  from   such  thraldom,  and  introduce  her,  as  his  wife,  into 
scenes  far  more  congenial  to  her  taste,  where  she  would  be  free 
from  such  keen  surveillance.     In  these  thoughts  he  was  ably 
seconded  by   Annie,  who  was   constantly  pitying    Caroline's 
enslaved  situation,  and  condemning  Mrs.  Hamilton's  strict  se- 
verity, declaring  it  was  all  affectation;  she  was  not  a  degree 
letter  than  any  one  else,  who  did  not  make  half  the  fuss  about 
it.     Lord  Alphingham's  resolution  was  taken,  that  before  the 
present  season  was  over,  Caroline  should  be  engaged  to  him, 


72  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

nolens  volens  on  the  part  of  her  parents,  and  he  acted  acco-«d- 
ingly. 

As  opposite  as  were  the  characters,  so  was  the  conduct  of 
Caroline's  two  noble  suitors.  St.  Eval.  in  spite  of  the  encourage- 
ment he  received,  yet  shrank  from  paying  any  marked  attention 
either  to  Caroline  or  her  parents.  It  was  by  degrees  he  be- 
came intimate  in  their  family,  but  there,  perhaps,  the  only 
person  with  whom  he  felt  entirely  at  ease  was  Emmeline,  who, 
rejoicing  at  Caroline's  change  of  manner,  began  to  hope  her 
feelings  were  changing  too,  and  indulged  in  hopes  that  one 
day  Lord  St.  Eval  might  really  be  her  brother.  Emmeline 
knew  her  sister's  opinion  of  coquetry  was  very  different  to  hers  ; 
but  this  simple-minded  girl  could  never  have  conceived  that 
scheme  of  duplicity,  which,  by  the  aid  .and  counsel  of  Annie, 
Caroline  now  practised.  She  scarcely  ever  saw  Alphingham, 
and  never  hearing  her  sister  name  him,  and  being  perfectly 
unconscious  of  his  attentions  when  they  met,  she  could  not. 
even  in  her  unusually  acute  imagination,  believe  him  St.  Eval's 
rival.  More  and  more  enamored  the  young  Earl  became- each 
time  he  felt  himself  an  especial  object  of  Caroline's  notice  ;  his 
heart  throbbed  and  his  hopes  grew  stronger,  still  he  breathed 
not  one  word  of  love,  he  dared  not.  Diffident  of  his  own  attrac- 
tive qualities,  he  feared  to  speak,  till  he  thought  he  could  be 
assured  of  her  affections.  In  the  intoxication  of  love,  he  felt 
her  refusal  would  have  more  effect  upon  him  than  he  could  bear. 
He  shrunk  from  the  remarks  of  the  world,  and  waited  yet  a 
little  longer,  ere  with  a  trembling  heart  he  should  ask  that  all- 
important  question.  So  matters  stood  in  Mr.  Hamilton's  fam- 
ily during  the  greater  part  of  the  London  season ;  but  as  it  is 
not  our  task  to  enter  into  Caroline's  gayeties,  we  here  may  be 
permitted  to  mention  Mrs.  Greville's  departure  with  her  deli- 
cate and  suffering  child- from  the  land  of  their  birth. 

Mr.  Greville  had  made  no  opposition  to  their  intended  plan. 
Seriously  Mr.  Maitland  had  told  him  that  the  life  of  his  child 
depended  on  her  residence  for  some  time  abroad,  in  a  genial 
climate  and  extreme  quiet ;  but  in  vain  did  Mrs.  Greville  en- 
deavor to  believe  that  affection  for  his  daughter  and  herself 
occasioned  this  unwonted  acquiescence ;  it  was  too  clearly  to 
be  perceived  that  he  was  pleased  at  their  separation  from  him- 
self, for  it  gave  him  more  liberty.  She  wrote  to  her  son.  im-v 
ploring  him  in  the  most  earnest  and  affectionate  manner  to 
return  home  for  the  Easter  vacation,  that  she  might  see  him 
for  a  few  days  before  she  left  England — perhaps  never  to 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  71 

return.  Ruined  from  earliest  boyhood  by  weak  indulgence, 
Alfred  Greville  felt  sometimes  a  throb  of  natural  feeling  for 
his  mother,  though  her  counsels  were  of  no  avail.  Touched  by 
the  mournful  solemnity  and  deep  affection  breathing  in  every 
line,  he  complied  with  her  request,  and  spent  four  or  five  days 
peacefully  at  home.  He  appeared  shocked  at  the  alteration 
he  found  in  his  sistor,  and  was  kinder  than  he  had  previously 
been  in  his  manner  towards  her.  He  had  lately  become  heir 
to  a  fortune  and  estate,  left  him  by  a  very  old  and  distant  rela- 
tive of  his  father,  and  it  was  from  this  he  had  determined,  ho 
told  his  father,  to  go  to  Cambridge  and  cut  a  dash  there  with 
the  best  of  them.  He  was  now  eighteen,  and  believed  himself 
no  inconsiderable  personage,  in  which  belief  he  was  warmly 
encouraged  by  his  mistaken  father.  It  was  strange  that,  with 
such  an  income,  he  permitted  the  favorite  residence  of  his 
mother  and  sister  to  be  sold — but  so  it  was.  The  generous 
feelings  of  his  early  childhood  had  been  completely  blunted, 
and  to  himself  alone  he  intended  to  appropriate  that  fortune, 
when  a  portion  would  yet  have  removed  many  of  Mrs.  Greville's 
anxious  fears  for  the  future.  Alfred  intended,  when  he  was  of 
aero,  to  be  one  of  the  first  men  of  fashion  ;  but  he  did  not  con- 
sider, that  if  he  "  cut  a  dash "  at  college,  with  the  £clat  he 
wished,  that  before  three  years  had  passed,  he  would  not  be 
much  richer  than  he  had  been  when  the  fortune  was  first  left 
fiim. 

-  Mother,  you  will  drive  me  from  you,"  he  one  day  ex- 
claimed, in  passion,  as  she  endeavored  to  detain  him.  "  If  you 
wish  ever  to  see  me,  let  me  take  my  own  way.  Advice  I  will 
not  brook,  and  reproach  I  will  not  bear ;  if  you  love  me,  be 
p;lent.  for  I  will  not  be  governed." 

;-  Alfred.  I  will  speak  !"  replied  his  almost  agonized  parent, 
urged  on  by  an  irresistible  impulse.  "  Child  of  my  love,  my 
prayers  !  Alfred,  I  will  not  see  you  go  wrong,  without  one 
effort,  one  struggle  to  guide  you  in  the  right  path.  Alfred,  I 
leave  England— my  heart  is  bursting  ;  for  Mary's  sake  alone  I 
live,  and  if  she  be  taken  from  me,  Alfred,  we  shall  never  meet 
again.  My  son.  my  son,  oh,  if  you  ever  loved  me.  listen  to  me 
now.  they  may  be  the  last  words  you  will  ever  hear  from  your 
mother's  lips.  I  implore.  I  beseech  you  to  turn  from  your 
evil  course^,  Alfred  !"  and  she  suddenly  sunk  at  his  feet,  the 
mother  before  the  son.  So  devoted,  so  fervid  was  the  love 
with  which  she  regarded  him.  that  had  she  been  told,  that  to 
lure  him  to  virtue  her  own  life  must  be  the  forfeit,  willingly  at 
4 


74  TIIE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

that  moment  would  she  have  died.  She  continued  with  an 
eloquence  of  such  beseeching  tenderness,  it  would  have  seemed 
none  could  have  heard  it  unmoved.  "  Alfred,  your  mother 
kneels  to  yon,  your  own  mother.  Oh,  hear  her  ;  do  not  con- 
demn her  to  wretchedness.  Let  me  not  suffer  more.  You  have 
sought  temptation ;  oh,  fly  from  it ;  seek  the  companionship  of 
those  who  will  lead  you  to  honor,  not  to  vice.  Break  from 
those  connections  you  have  weaved  around  you.  Turn  again 
to  the  God  you  have  deserted.  O'u,  do  not  live  as  you  have 
done  ;  think  on  the  responsibility  each  year  increases.  Mv 
child,  my  beloved,  in  mercy  refuse  not  your  mother's  prayer  ! 
reject  not  my  advice,  Alfred  !  Alfred  P  and  she  clung  to  him, 
while  her  voice  became  hoarse  with  intense  anguish.  '•  Oh, 
promise  me  to  turn  from  your  present  life.  Promise  me  to 
think  on  my  words,  to  seek  the  footstool  of  mercy,  and  return 
again  to  Him  who  has  not  forsaken  you.  Promise  me  to  live 
a  better  life ;  say  you  will  be  your  mother's  comfort,  not  her 
misery — her  blessing,  not  her  curse.  My  child,  my  child,  be 
merciful !"  Longer,  more  imploring  still  would  she  have 
pleaded,  but  voice  failed,  and  it  was  only  on  those  chiselled 
features  the  agony  of  the  soul  could  have  been  discovered 
Alfred  gazed  on  her  thus  kneeling  at  his  feet — his  mother,  she 
who  in  his  infancy  had  knelt  beside  him,  to  guide  on  high  his 
childish  prayers.  The  heart  of  the  misguided  boy  was  softened, 
tears  filled  his  eyes.  He  would  have  spoken,  he  would  have 
pledged  himself  to  do  all  that  she  had  asked,  when  suddenly 
the  ridicule  of  his  companions  flashed  before  his  fancy.  Could 
he  bear  that?  No ;  he  could  see  his  mother  at  his  feet,  but  he 
could  not  meet  the  ridicule  of  the  world.  He  raised  her  has- 
tily, but  in  perfect  silence  ;  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  kissed  her 
cheek  repeatedly,  then  placed  her  on  a  couch,  and  darted  from 
her  presence.  He  had  said  no  word,  he  had  given  no  sign ; 
and  for  several  hours  that  mother  could  not  overcome  internal 
wretchedness  so  far  even  as  .to  join  her  Mary.  He  returned 
to  Cambridge.  They  parted  in  affection  ;  seldom  had  the 
reckless  boy  evinced  so  much  emotion  as  he  did  when  he  bade 
farewell  to  his  mother  and  sister.  He  folded  Mary  to  his 
bosom,  and  implored  her,  in  a  voice  almost  inaudible,  to  take 
care  of  her  own  health  for  the  sake  of  their  mother  ;  but  when 
she  entreated  him  to  come  and  see  them  in  their  new  abode  as 
soon  as  he  could,  he  answered  not  Yet  that  emotion  had  left 
a  balm  on  the  torn  heart  of  his  mother.  She  fancied  her 
son,  wayward  as  he  was,  yet  loved  her ;  and  though  she  dared 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  75 

not  look  forward  to  his  reformation,  still,  to  feel  he  loved  her — 
oh;  if  fresh  zeal  were  required  in  her  prayers,  that  knowledge 
gave  it. 

The  first  week  in  May  they  left  Greville  Manor.  Still 
weak  and  suffering,  the  struggle  to  conceal  and  subdue  all  she 
felt  at  leaving,  as  she  thought  for  ever,  the  house  of  her  infan- 
cy,  of  her  girlhood,  her  youth,  was  almost  too  much  for  poor 
Mary  ;  and  her  mother  more  than  once  believed  she  would  not 
reach  in  life  the  land  they  were  about  to  seek.  The  sea  breezes, 
for  they  travelled  whenever  they  could  along  the  shore,  in  a 
degree  nerved  her ;  and  by  the  time  they  reached  Dover,  ten 
days  after  they  had  left  the  Manor,  she  had  rallied  sufficiently 
to  ease  the  sorrowing  heart  of  her  mother  of  a  portion  of  its 
burden. 

They  arrived  at  Dover  late  in  the  evening,  and  early  the 
following  day,  as  Mary  sat  by  the  large  window  of  the  hotel, 
watching  with  some  appearance  of  interest  the  bustling  scene 
before  her,  a  travelling  carriage  passed  rapidly  by  and  stopped 
at  the  entrance.  She  knew  the  livery,  and  her  heart  throbbed 
almost  to  suffocation,  as  it  whispered  that  Mr.  Hamilton  would 
not  come  alone. 

';  Mother,  Mr.  Hamilton  has  arrived,"  she  succeeded  at 
length  in  saying.  "  And  Emmeline — is  it,  can  it  be  ?"  But 
she  had  no  more  time  to  wonder,  for  ere  she  had  recovered  the 
agitation  the  sight  of  one  other  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  family  had 
occasioned,  they  were  in  the  room,  and  Emmeline  springing 
forward,  had  flung  herself  on  Mary's  neck ;  and  utterly  unable 
to  control  her  feelings  at  the  change  she  beheld  in  her  friend, 
wept  passionately  on  her  shoulder.  Powerfully  agitated,  Mary 
felt  her  strength  was  failing,  and  had  it  not  been  for  Mr.  Ha- 
milton's support,  she  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground.  He 
supported  her  with  a  father's  tenderness  to  the  couch,  and 
reproachfully  demanded  of  Emmeline  if  she  had  entirely  for- 
gotten her  promise  of  composure. 

"  Do  not  reprove  her,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Greville, 
as  she  drew  the  weeping  girl  affectionately  to  her.  "  My  poor 
Mary  is  so  quickly  agitated  now,  that  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
three  instead  of  one  of  our  dear-valued  friends  has  been  suffi- 
cient of  itself  to  produce  this  agitation.  And  you  too,  Her- 
bert," she  continued,  extending  her  hand  to  the  young  man, 
who  hastily  raised  it  to  his  lips,  as  if  to  conceal  an  emotion 
which  had  paled  his  cheek,  almost  as  a  kindred  feeling  had 
done  with  Mary's.  "  Have  you  deserted  your  favorite  pur- 


76  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

suits,  and  left  Oxford  at  such  a  busy  time,  merely  to  see  us 
before  we  leave?  This  is  kind,  indeed." 

"  I  left  Percy  to  work  for  me,"  answered  Herbert,  endea- 
voring to  hide  emotion  under  the  veil  of  gayety.  "As  to 
permit  you  to  leave  England  without  once  more  seeing  you, 
and  having  one  more  smile  from  Mary,  I  would  not,  even  had 
the  whole  honor  of  my  college  been  at  stake.  You  must  not 
imagine  me  so  entirely  devoted  to  my  books,  Jear  Mrs.  Gre- 
ville,  as  to  believe  I  possess  neither  time  nor  inclination  for 
the  gentler  feelings  of  human  nature." 

"  I  know  you  too  well,  and  have  known  you  too  long  to 
imagine  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Greville,  earnestly.  "Ahi  is 
Mary  so  completely  to  engross  your  attention,  Emmeline,"  she 
added,  turning  towards  the  couch  where  the  friends  sat,  "  that 
I  am  not  to  hear  a  word  of  your  dear  mother,  Caroline,  or  El- 
len ?  Indeed,  I  cannot  allow  that." 

The  remark  quickly  produced  a  general  conversation,  and 
Herbert  for  the  first  time  addressed  Mary.  A  strange,  uncon- 
querable emotion  had  chained  his  tongue  as  he  beheld  lier  ; 
but  now,  with  eager  yet  respectful  tenderness,  he  inquired  after 
her  health,  and  how  she  had  borne  their  long  journey ;  and 
sther  questions,  trifling  in  themselves,  but  uttered  in  a  tone 
that  thrilled  the  young  heart  of  her  he  addressed. 

Herbert  knew  not  how  intimately  the  image  of  Mary  Gre- 
ville  had  mingled  with  his  most  secret  thoughts,  even  in  his 
moments  of  grave  study  and  earnest  application,  until  he  heard 
she  was  about  to  leave  England.  Sorrow,  disappointment, 
Scarcely  defined  but  bitterly  painful,  then  occupied  his  mind, 
and  the  knowledge  burst  with  dazzling  clearness  on  his  heart 
that  he  loved  her  ;  so  deeply,  so  devotedly,  that  even  were  every 
other  wish  fulfilled,  life,  without  her,  would  be  a  blank.  He 
had  deemed  himself  so  lifted  above  all  earthly  feelings,  that 
even  were  he  to  be  deprived  as  Mr.  Morton  of  every  natural 
relation,  ie  could  in  time  reconcile  himself  to  the  will  of  his 
Maker,  and  in  the  discharge  of  ministerial  duties  be  happy. 
He  had  fancied  his  heart  was  full  of  the  love  of  God  alone, 
blessed  in  that,  however  changed  his  earthly  iot.  Suddenly 
he  was  awakened  from  his  illusion  :  now  in  the  hour  of  sepa- 
ration he  knew  an  earthly  idol ;  he  discovered  that  he  was  not 
so  completely  the  servant  of  his  Maker  as  he  had  hoped,  and 
sometimes  believed.  But  in  the  doubts  and  fears  which  sha- 
dowed his  exalted  mind,  he  sought  the  footstool  of  his  God. 
His  cry  for  assistance  was  not  unheeded.  Peace  and  comfort 


THE  MDTHK&:8  RECOMPENSE.  77 

rested  on  his  heart.  A  cloud  wag  lifted  from  his  eyes,  and  for 
the  knowledge  of  his  virtuous  love  he  blessed  his  God  ;  feeling 
thus  supported,  he  could  guide  and  control  himself  according 
to  the  dictates  of  piety.  He  knew  well  the  character  of 
Mary  ;  he  felt  assured  that,  if  in  after  years  he  were  permitted 
to  make  her  his  own,  she  would  indeed  become  his  helpmate 
in  all  things,  more  particularly  in  those  which  related  to  his 
God  and  to  his  holy  duties  among  men.  He  thought  on  the 
sympathy  that  existed  between  them — he  remembered  the 
lighting  up  of  that  soft,  dark  eye,  the  flushing  cheek,  the  smile 
of  pleasure  that  ever  welcomed  him,  and  fondly  his  heart 
whispered  that  he  need  not  doubt  her  love.  Three  years,  or 
nearly  four  must  elapse  ere  he  could  feel  at  liberty  to  marry; 
not  till  he  beheld  himself  a  minister  of  God.  Yet  intermina- 
ble as  to  his  imagination  the  intervening  years  appeared,  still 
there  was  no  trembling  in  his  trusting  heart.  If  his  Father 
on  high  ordained  them  for  each  other,  it  mattered  not  how  long 
the  time  that  must  elapse,  and  if  for  some  wise  purpose  his  wishes 
were  delayed,  he  recognized  the  hand  of  God,  and  saw  "  that 
it  was  good." 

Yet  Herbert  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  behold  Mary 
once  more  ere  she  quitted  England,  to  explain  to  her  his  feel- 
ings ;  to  understand  each  other.  He  knew  the  day  his  father 
intended  going  to  Dover,  and  the  evening  previous,  much  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  family,  made  his  appearance  amongst 
them.  All  expressed  pleasure  at  his  intention  but  one,  and 
that  one  understood  not  why ;  but  when  she  heard  the  cause 
of  his  unexpected  visit,  a  sudden  and  indefinable  pang  shot 
through  her  young  heart,  dimming  at  once  the  joy  with  which 
the  sight  of  him  had  filled  it.  She  knew  not.  guessed  not  why, 
when  she  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow  that  night,  she  wept  so 
bitterly.  The  source  of  those  secret  and  silent  tears  she  could 
not  trace,  she  only  knew  their  cause  was  one  of  sorrow,  and  yet 
she  loved  Mary. 

The  pleading  earnestness  of  Emmeline  had.  after  some  little 
difficulty,  obtained  the  consent  of  her  mother  to  her  accompa- 
nying her  father  and  brother,  on  condition,  however,  of  her  not 
agitating  Mary  by  any  unconstrained  display  of  sorrow.  It  was 
only  at  their  first  meeting  this  condition  had  been  forgotten. 
Mary  looked  so  pale,  so  thin,  so  different  even  to  when  they 
parted,  that  the  warm  heart  of  Emmeline  could  not  be  re- 
strained, for  she  knew,  however  resignation  might  be,  nay,  was 
felt,  it  was  a  bitter  pang  to  that  gentle  girl  to  leave  her  native 


• 
78  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

land,  and*  the  friends  she  so  much  loved  ;  but  recalling  her 
promise,  with  a  strong  effort  she  checked  her  own  sorrow,  and 
endeavored  with  playful  fondness  to  raise  the  spirits  of  her 
friend. 

The  day  passed  cheerfully  ;  the  young  people  took  a  drive 
for  some  few  miles  in  the  vicinity  of  Dover,  while  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton, acting  the  part  of  a  brother  to  the  favorite  prot(*g£  of  his 
much-loved  mother,  listened  to  her  plans,  counselled  and  im- 
proved them,  and  indeed,  on  many  points  proved  himself  such  a f 
true  friend,  that  when  Mrs.  Greville  retired  to  rest  that  night  she 
felt  more  at  ease  in  mind  than  for  many  months  she  had  been. 
The  following  day  was  employed  in  seeing  all  the  antiquities 
of  Dover,  its  ancient  castle  among  the  first,  and  -with  Mr.  Ham- 
ilton as  a  cicerone  it  was  a  day  of  pleasure  to  all,  though,  per- 
haps, a  degree  of  melancholy  might  hav.e  pervaded  the  party 
in  the  evening,  for  the  recollection  would  eome,  that  by  noon 
on  the  morrow  Mrs.  Greville  and  Mary  would  bid  them  fare- 
well. In  vain  during  that  day  had  Herbert  sought  for  an 
opportunity  to  speak  with  Mary  on  the  subject  nearest  his 
heart,  though  they  had  been  so  happy  together ;  when  for  a 
few  minutes  they  found  themselves  alone,  he  had  fancied  there 
was  more  than  usuai  reserve  in  Mary's  manner,  which  checked 
the  words  upon  his  lip.  Some  hours  he  lay  awake  that  night. 
Should  he  write  his  hopes  and  wishes  ?  No :  he  would  hear 
the  answer  from  her  own  lips,  and  the  next  morning  an  oppor- 
tunitj  appeared  to  present  itself. 

The  vessel  did  not  leave  Dover  till  an  hour  before  noon, 
and  breakfast  having  been  dispatched  by  half-past  nine,  Mrs. 
Greville  persuaded  her  daughter  to  take  a  gentle  walk  in  the 
intervening  time.  Herbert  instantly  offered  to  escort  her. 
Emm'iline  remained  to  assist  Mrs.  Greville  in  some  travelling 
arrangements,  and  Mr.  Hamilton  employed  himself  in  some  of 
those  numberless  little  offices  which  active  men  take  upon 
themselves  in  the  business  of  a  departure.  Mary  shrunk  with 
such  evident  reluctance  from  this  arrangement,  that  for  the 
first  time  Herbert  doubted. 

"  You  were  not  wont  to  shrink  thus  from  accepting  me  as 
your  companion,"  he  said,  fixing  his  large  expressive  eyes 
mournfully  upon  her,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  such  melan- 
choly sweetness,  that  Mary  hastily  struggled  to  conc»l  the  tear 
that  started  to  her  eye.  "  Are  our  happy  days  of  childhood 
indeed  thus  forgotten?"  he  continued,  gently.  "  Go  with  me, 
dear  Mary ;  let  us  in  fancy  transport  ourselves  at  least  for  one 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  79 

hour  back  to  those  happy  years  of  early  life  which  will  not  come 
again." 

The  thoughts,  the  hopes,  the  joys  of  her  childhood  flashed 
with  sudden  power  through  the  heart  of  Mary  as  he  spoke,  and 
she  resisted  them  not. 

"  Forgive  me,  Herbert,"  she  said,  hastily  rising  to  prepare ; 
"  I  have  become  a  strange  and  wayward  being  the  last  few 
months  ;  you  must  bear  with  me,  for  the  sake  of  former  days." 

Playfully  he  granted  the  desired  forgiveness,  and  they  de- 
parted on  their  walk.  For  some  little  time  they  walked  in 
silence.  Before  the}'  were  aware  of  it,  a  gentle  ascent  con- 
ducted them  to  a  spot;  not  only  lovely  in  its  own  richness,  but 
in  the  extensive  view  that  stretched  beneath  them.  The  wide 
ocean  lay  slumbering  at  their  feet ;  the  brilliant  rays  of  tho 
sun.  which  it  reflected  as  a  mirror,  appeared  to  lull  it  to  rest, 
the  very  waves  broke  softly  on  the  shore.  To  the  left  extended 
the  snow-white  cliffs,  throwing  in  shadow  part  of  the  ocean,  and 
bringing  forward  their  own  illumined  walls  in  bold  relief 
against  the  dark  blue  sea.  Ships  of  every  size,  from  the  float- 
ing castle  in  the  offing  to  the  tiny  pleasure  boat,  whose  white 
sails  shining  in  the  sun  caused  her  to  be  distinguished  at  some 
distance,  skimming  along  the  ocean  as  a  bird  of  snowy  plumage 
across  the  heavens,  the  merchant  vessels,  the  packets  entering 
and  departing,  even  the  blackened  colliers,  added  interest  to  the 
scene  ;  for  at  the  distance  Herbert  and  Mary  stood,  no  confu- 
sion was  heard  to  disturb  the  moving  picture.  On  their  right 
the  beautiful  country  peculiar  to  Kent  sp/ead  out  before  them 
in  graceful  undulations  of  hill  and  valley,  hop-ground  and  mea- 
dow, wherein  the  sweet  fragrance  of  the  newly-mown  grass  was 
wafted  at  intervals  to  the  spot  where  they  stood.  Wild  flowers 
of  various  kinds  were  around  them  :  the  hawthorn  appearing 
like  a  tree  of  snow  in  the  centre  of  a  dark  green  hedge ;  the 
modest  primrose  and  the  hidden  violet  yet  lingered,  as  if  loth 
';  to  depart,  though  their  brethren  of  the  summer  had  already  put 
forth  their  budding  blossoms.  A  newly-severed  trunk  of  an 
aged  tree  invited  them  to  sit  and  rest,  and  the  most  tasteful 
art  could  not  have  placed  a  rustic  seat  in  a  more  lovely  scene. 

Long  and  painfully  did  Mary  gaze  around  her,  as  if  she 
would  engrave  within  her  heart  every  scene  of  the  land  she  wai 
BO  soon  to  leave. 

(:  Herbert."  she  said,  at  length,  "  I  never  wished  to  gazo 
on  futurity  before,  but  now.  oh,  I  would  give  much  to  know  if 
indeed  I  shall  ever  gaze  on  these  scenes  again.  Could  I  but 


SO  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE, 

think  I  might  return  to  them,  the  pang  of  leaving  would  lose 
one-half  its  bitterness.  I  know  this  is  a  weak  and  perhaps  sin- 
ful feeling;  but  in  vain  I  have  lately  striven  to  bow  resignedly 
to  my  Maker's  will,  even  should  His  call  meet  me.  as  I  some- 
timed  fear  it  will,  in  a  foreign  land,  apart  from  all,  save  one, 
whom  I  love  on  earth." 

"  Do  not,  do  not  think  so,  dearest  Mary.  True,  indeed, 
there  is  no  parting  without  its  fears,  even  for  a  week,  a  day, 
an  hour.  Death  ever  hovers  near  us,  to  descend  when  least 
expected.  But  oh,  for  my  sake,  Mary,  dear  Mary,  talk  not  of 
dying  in  a  foreign  land.  God's  will  is  best,  His  decree  is  love, 
I  know  it,  I  feel  it,  and  on  this  subject  from  our  infancy  we 
have  felt  alike  ;  to  you  alone  have  1  felt  that  I  dared  breathe 
the  holy  aspirations  sometimes  my  own.  I  am  not  wont  to  be 
sanguine,  but  somewhat  whispers  within  me  you  will  return— 
these  scenes  behold  again." 

Mary  gazed  on  her  young  companion  ;  he  had  spoken  with 
unwonted  animation,  and  his  mild  eyes  rested  with  trusting 
fondness  upon  her ;  she  dared  not  meet  it ;  her  pale  cheek 
suddenly  became  crimson,  but  with  an  effort  she  replied — 

"  Buoy  me  not  up  with  vain  hopes,  Herbert ;  it  is  better, 
perhaps,  that  I  should  never  look  to  my  return,  for  hope 
might  descend  to  vain  wishes,  and  wishes  to  repinings.  which, 
must  not  be.  I  shall  look  on  other  scenes  of  loveliness,  and 
though  in  them  perhaps  no  fond  association  of  earth  may  be 
mingled,  yet  there  is  one  of  which  no  change  of  country  can 
deprive  me,  one  association  that  from  scenes  like  these  can 
never,  never  fly.  The  friends  of  my  youth  will  be  no  longer 
near  me,  strangers  alone  will  surround  me  ;  but  even  as  the 
hand  of  my  Heavenly  Father  is  marked  in  every  scene,  how- 
ever far  apart,  so  is  that  hand,  that  love  extended  to  mo 
wherever  I  may  dwell.  Oh,  that  my  heart  may  indeed  be 
filled  with  the  love  of  Him." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  The  countenance  of  Herbert 
had  been  for  a  moment  troubled,  but  after  a  few  seconda 
resumed  its  serenity,  heightened  by  the  fervid  feelings  of  his 
heart. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  taking  her  passive  hand  in  his,  <:  if  I 
am  too  bold  in  speaking  all  I  wish,  forgive  me.  You  know 
not  how  I  have  longed  for  one  moment  of  unchecked  confi- 
dence before  you  left  England  ;  it  is  now  before  me,  and,  oh, 
listen  to  me,  dearest  Mary,  with  that  kindness  you  have  ever 
Bhown.  I  need  not  remind  you  of  our  days  of  childhood  and 


THE   MOTHERS    RECOMPENSE.  SI 

early  youth;  I  need  not  recall  the  mutual  sympathy  which,  in 
every  feeling,  hope,  joy,  or  sorrow,  has  been  our  own.  We 
have  grown  together,  played  together  in  infancy  ;  read, 
thought,  and  often  in  secret  prayed  together  in  youth.  Tc 
you  I  have  ever  imparted  my  heartfelt  wishes,  earnest 
prayers  for  my  future  life,  to  become  a  worthy  servant  of  my 
God,  and  lead  others  in  his  path,  and  yet,  frail  mortal  as  I  am, 
I  feel,  even  if  these  wishes  are  fulfilled,  there  will  yet,  dearest 
Mary,  remain  a  void  within  my  heart.  May  I,  may  I,  indeed, 
behold  in  the  playmate  of  my  infancy  a  friend  in  manhood, 
the  partner  of  my  life — my  own  Mary  as  my  assistant  in  la- 
bors of  love  ?  I  am  agitating  you,  dearest  girl,  forgive  me  ; 
only  give  me  some  little  hope.  Years  must  elapse  ere  that 
blessed  moment  can  arrive,  perhaps  I  have  been  wrong  to  urge 
it  now,  but  I  could  not  part  from  you  without  one  word  to 
explain  my  feelings,  to  implore  your  ever-granted  sympathy  " 

The  hand  of  Mary  trembled  in  his  grasp.  She  had  turned 
from  his  pleading  glance,  but  when  he  ceased,  she  raised  her 
head  and  struggled  to  speak.  A  smile,  beautiful,  holy  in  its 
beauty,  appeared  struggling  with  tears,  and  a  faint  flush  had 
risen  to  her  cheek,  but  voice  she  had  none,  and  for  one  mo- 
ment she  concealed  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  She  withdrew 
not  her  hand  from  his,  and  Herbert  felt — oh,  how  gratefully — 
that  his  love  was  returned  ;  he  had  not  hoped  in  vain.  For 
some  minutes  they  could  not  speak,  every  feeling  was  in  com- 
mon ;  together  they  had  grown,  together  loved,  and  now  that 
the  magic  word  had  been  spoken,  what  need  was  there  for  re- 
serve ?  None ;  and  reserve  was  banished.  No  darkening 
clouds  were  then  perceived  ;  at  that  moment  Mary  thought 
not  of  her  father,  and  if  she  did,  could  she  believe  that  his 
consent  to  a  union  with  a  son  of  Mr.  Hamilton  would  be 
difficult  to  obtain?  Marry  they  could  not  yet,  and  perhaps 
the  unalloyed  bliss  of  that  hour  might  have  originated  in  the 
fact  tliat  they  thought  only  of  the  present — the  blessed 
knowledge  that  they  loved  each  other,  were  mutually  beloved. 

The  happiness  glowing  on  Mary's  expressive  countenance 
as  she  entered  could  not  fail  to  attract  the  watchful  eye  of  her 
mother,  and  almost  unconsciously,  and  certainly  indefinably, 
her  own  bosom  reflected  the  pleasure  of  her  child,  and  the 
pang  of  quitting  England  was  partially  eased  of  its  bitterness. 
Yet  still  it  was  a  sorrowful  moment  when  the  time  of  separa- 
tion actually  came.  Their  friends  had  gone  on  board  with 
them,  and  remained  till  the  signal  for  departure  was  given. 
4* 


82  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Mary  had  preferred  the  cabin  to  the  confusion  on  deck,  and 
there  her  friends  left  her.  In  the  sorrow  of  that  moment 
Einmeline's  promise  of  composure  was  again  forgotten  ;  she 
clung  weeping  to  Mary's  neck,  till  her  father,  with  gentle  per- 
suasion, drew  her  away,  and  almost  carried  her  on  deck.  Her- 
bert yet  lingered  ;  they  were  alone  in  the  cabin,  the  confusion 
attendant  on  a  departure  preventing  all  fear  of  intruders. 
He  clasped  Mary  to  his  heart,  in  one  long  passionate  embrace, 
then  hastily  placing  the  trembling  girl  in  the  arms  of  her 
mother,  he  murmured  almost  inaudibly- — 

"  Mrs.  Greville,  dearest  Mrs.  Greville,  guard,  oh.  guard  her 
for  me,  she  will  be  mine ;  she  will  return  to  bless  me,  when  I 
may  claim  and  can  cherish  her  as  my  wife.  Talk  to  her  of 
me ;  let  not  the  name  of  Herbert  be  prohibited  between  you. 
I  must  not  stay,  yet  one  word  more,  Mrs.  Greville — say,  oh, 
say  you  will  not  refuse  me  as  your  son,  if  three  years  hence 
Mary  will  still  be  mine.  Say  your  blessing  will  hallow  our 
union  ;  and  oh,  I  feel  it  will  then  indeed  be  blessed  !" 

Overpowered  with  sudden  surprise  and  unexpected  joy, 
Mrs.  Greville  gazed  for  a  moment  speechlessly  on  the  noble 
youth  before  her,  and  vainly  the  mother  struggled  to  speak  at 
this  confirmation  of  her  long-cherished  hope -and  wishes. 

"  Mother,"  murmured  Mary,  alarmed  at  her  silence,  and 
burying  her  face  in  her  bosom,  "  mother,  will  you  not  speak, 
will  you  not  bid  us  hope?" 

"  God  in  Heaven  bless  you,  my  children  !"  she  at  length 
exclaimed,  bursting  into  tears  of  heartfelt  gratitude  tnd  joy. 
'•  It  was  joy,  joy,"  she  repeated,  struggling  for  composure  ;  "  I 
expected  not  this  blessing.  Yes,  Herbert,  we  will  speak  of 
you,  think  of  you,  doubt  us  not,  my  son.  my  dear  son.  A 
mother's  protecting  care  and  soothing  love  will  guard  your 
Mary.  She  is  not  only  her  mother's  treasure  now.  Go,  my 
beloved  Herbert,  you  are  summoned  ;  farewell,  and  God  blesa 
you !" 

Herbert  did  not  linger  with  his  father  and  sister ;  a  few 
minutes'  private  interview  with  the  former  caused  his  most 
sanguine  hopes  to  become  yet  stronger,  then  travelling  post  to 
London,  where  he  only  remained  a  few  hours,  returned  with 
all  haste  to  his  college.  In  his  rapid  journey,  however,  he 
had  changed  his  mind  with  regard  to  keeping  what  had  passed 
between  himself  and  Mary  a  secret  from  his  mother,  whom  he 
vet  loved  with  perhaps  even  more  confiding  fondness  than  in 
bis  boyhood.  He  saw  her  alone ;  imparted  to  her  briefly  but 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  83 

earnestly  all  that  bad  passed,  implored  her  to  promise  con- 
sent, and  preserve  his  confidence  even  from  his  brother  and 
sisters ;  as  so  long  a  time  must  elapse  ere  they  could  indeed 
be  united,  that  he  dreaded  their  engagement  being  known. 

"  Even  the  good  wishes  of  the  dear  members  of  home,"  he 
said,  "  would  sound,  I  fear,  but  harshly  on  my  ear.  I  cannot 
define  why  I  do  not  wish  it  known  even  to  those  I  love ;  yet, 
dearest  mother,  indulge  me.  The  events  jf  one  day  are  hid- 
den from  us ;  how  dark  then  must  be  those  of  three  years. 
No  plighted  promise  has  passed  between  us  ;  it  is  but  the  con 
fidence  of  mutual  love ;  and  that — jh,  mother,  I  could  not 
bear  it  torn  from  the  recesses  of  my  own  breast  to  be  a  sub- 
ject of  conversation  even  to  those  dearest  to  me." 

His  mother  looked  on  the  glowing  countenance  of  her  son ; 
on  him.  who  from  his  birth  had  never  by  his  conduct  given, 
her  one  single  moment  of  care,  and  had  she  even  disapproved 
of  his  secrecy,  all  he  asked  would  have  been  .granted  him  ;  but 
she  approved  of  his  resolution,  and  emotion  glistened  in  her 
eye.  as  she  said — 

'•  My  Herbert,  if  I  had  been  privileged  to  select  one  among 
my  young  friends  to  be  your  wife,  my  choice  would  have  fall- 
en, without  one  moment's  hesitation,  on  Mary  Greville.  She, 
amid  them  all,  I  deem  most  worthy  to  be  the  partner  of  my 
son.  May  Heaven  in  mercy  spare  you  to  each  other  !" 

Herbert  returned  to  college,  and  resumed  his  studies  with, 
even  greater  earnestness  than  before.  His  unrestrained  con- 
fidence had  been  as  balm  to  his  mother's  heart,  and  soothed 
the- bitter  pain  it  was  to  behold,  to  feel  assured,  for  it  was  no 
longer  fancy,  that  the  confidence  of  Caroline  was  indeed  ut- 
terly denied  her  and  bestowed  upon  another.  Yet  still"  Mrs. 
Hamilton  fancied  Caroline  loved  St.  Eval ;  her  eyes  had  not 
yet  been  opened  to  the  enormity  of  her  daughter's  conduct. 
.Nor  were  they  till,  after  a  long  struggle  of  fervid  love  with 
the  tremblings  natural  to  a  fond  but  reserved  and  lowly  heart. 
St.  Eval  summoned  courage  to  offer  hand,  heart,  and  fortune 
to  the  girl  he  loved  (he  might  well  be  pardoned  for  the  belief 
that  she  loved  him),  and  was  rejected,  coldly,  decidedly. 

The  young  Earl  had  received  the  glad  sanction  of  Mr. 
Hamilton  to  make  his  proposals  to  his  daughter.  There  had 
never  been,  nor  was  there  now,  any  thing  to  damp  hia  hopes. 
He  was  not,  could  not  be  deceived  in  the  belief  that  Caroline 
accepted,  nay,  demanded,  encouraged  his  attention.  Invaria- 
bly kind,  almost  fascinating  in  her  manner,  she  had  ever  singled 


84  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

him  out  from  the  midst  of  many  much  gayer  and  more  attract 
ive  young  men.  She  had  given  him  somewhat  more  to  love 
each  time  they  parted ;  and  what  could  this  mean,  but  that  she 
cared  for  him  more  than  for  others?  Again  and  again  St. 
Eval  pondered  on  the  encouragement  he  could  not  doubt  but 
that  he  received  ;  again  and  again  demanded  of  himself  if  he 
were  not  playing  with  her  feelings  thus  to  defer  his  proposals. 
Surely  she  loved  him.  The  sanction  of  her  parents  had 
heightened  his  hopes,  and  love  and  confidence  in  the  truth,  the 
purity  of  his  beloved  one  obtained  so  much  ascendency 
over  his  heart,  that  when  the  important  words  were  said, 
he  had  almost  ceased  to  fear.  How  bitter,  how  agonizing  then 
must  have  been  his  disappointment  when  he  was  refused — 
when  sudden  haughtiness  beamed  on  Caroline's  noble  brow, 
and  coldness  spread  over  every  feature.  And  yet,  could  he 
doubt  it?  No;  triumph  was  glittering  in  her  sparkling  eye; 
in  vain  he  looked  for  sympathy  in  his  disappointment,  if  love 
were  denied  him.  He  gazed  on  her,  and  the  truth  suddenly 
flashed  on  his  mind;  he  marked  the  triumph  with  which  she 
heard  his  offer;  no  softening  emotion  was  in  her  countenance. 
In  vain  he  tried  to  ascribe  its  expression  to  some  other  feel- 
ing ;  it  was  triumph,  he  could  not  be  deceived;  and  with  agony 
St.  Eval  discovered  that  the  being  he  had  almost  worshipped 
was  not  the  faultless  creature  he  had  believed  her ;  she  had 
played  with  his  feelings  ;  she  had  encouraged  him,  heightened  his 
love,  merely  to  afford  herself  amusement.  The  visions  of  hope, 
of  fancy  were  rudely  dispelled,  and  perhaps  at  that  moment  it 
was  better  for  his  peace  that  he  suddenly  felt  she  was  beneath 
his  love ;  she  was  not  worthy  to  be  his  wife.  He  no  longer 
esteemed ;  and  if  love  itself  were  not  utterly  snapped  asunder, 
the  loss  of  esteem  enabled  him  to  act  in  that  interview  with 
pride  approaching  to  her  own.  He  reproached  her  not :  no 
word  did  he  utter  that  could  prove  how  deeply  he  was  wound- 
ed, and  thus  add  fo  the  triumph  so  plain  to  be  perceived. 
That  she  had  sunk  in  his  estimation  she  might  have  seen,  but 
other  feelings  prevented  her  discovering  how  deeply.  Had  she 
veiled  her  manner  more,  had  she  rejected  him  with  kindness, 
St.  Eval  might  still  have  loved,  and  imagined  that  friendship 
and  esteem  had  actuated  her  conduct  towards  him.  Yet  those 
haughty  features  expelled  this  thought  as  soon  as  it  arose.  It 
was  on  the  night  of  a  gay  assembly  St.  Eval  had  found  an  op« 
portunity  to  speak  with  Caroline,  and  when  both  rejoined  the 
gay  crowd  no  emotion  was  discernible  in  the  countenance  of 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  85 

either.  St.  Eval  was  the  same  to  all  as  usual.  No  one  who 
might  have  heard  his  eloquent  discussion  on  some  state  affairs 
with  the  Russian  consul  could  have  imagined  how  painfully 
acute  were  his  sufferings ;  it  was  not  only  disappointed  love — 
"no.  his  was  aggravated  bitterness;  he  could  no  longer  esteem 
the  object  of  his  love,  he  had  found  himself  deceived,  cruelly 
deceived,  in  one  he  had  looked  on  almost  as  faultless ;  and 
where  is  the  pang  that  can  equal  one  like  this  ?  The  heightened 
<»oior  on  Caroline's  cheek,  the  increased  brilliancy  of  her  eye, 
attracted  the  admiration  of  all  around  her,  the  triumph  ot 
power  had  indeed  been  achieved.  But  when  she  laid  her  head 
on  her  pillow,  when  the  silence  and  darkness  of  night  brought 
the  past  to  her  mind  more  vividly,  in  vain  she  sought  forget- 
fulness  in  sleep.  Was  it  happiness,  triumph,  that  bade  her 
bury  her  face  in  her  hands  and  weep,  weep  till  almost  every 
limb  became  convulsed  by  her  overpowering  emotion  ?  Her 
thoughts  were  undefined,  but  so  painful,  that  she  was  glad — 
how  glad,  when  morning  came.  She  compared  her  present 
with  her  former  self,  and  the  contrast  was  misery;  but  even  as 
her  ill-fated  aunt  had  done,  she  summoned  pride  to  stifle  every 
feeling  of  remorse. 

Mr.  Hamilton  had  given  his  sanction  to  the  addresses  of 
Lord  St.  Eval  to  his  daughter;  but  he  knew  not  when  the 
young  man  intended  to  place  the  seal  upon  his  fate.  Great 
then  was  his  astonishment,  the  morning  following  the  evening 
we  have  mentioned,  when  St.  Eval  called  to  bid  him  farewell, 
as  he  intended,  he  said,  leaving  London  that  afternoon  for  his 
father's  seat,  where  he  should  remain  perhaps  a  week,  and  then 
quit  Englanl  for  the  Continent.  He  spoke  calmly,  but  there 
was  a  paleness  of  the  cheek,  a  dimness  of  the  eye,  that  told  a 
tale  of  inward  wretchedness,  which  the  regard  of  Mr.  Hamilton 
could  not  fail  instantly  to  discover.  Deeply  had  be  become 
interested  in  the  young  man,  and  the  quick  instinct  combined 
with  the  fears  of  a  father  told  him  that  the  conduct  of  Caro- 
line had  caused  this  change.  He  looked  at  the  expressive 
countenance  of  the  young  Earl  for  a  few  minutes,  then  placing 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  said  kindly,  but  impressively — 

'•  St.  Eval,  you  are  changed,  as  well  as  your  plans.  You 
arc  unhappy.  What  has  happened  1  Have  your  too  sensitive 
feelings  caused  you  to  fancy  Caroline  unkind  ?" 

i-  Would  to  heaven  it  were  only  fancy  !"  replied  St.  Eval 
with  unwonted  emotion",  and  almost  convulsively  clenching  both 
hands  as  if  for  calmness,  added  more  composedly,  "  I  havo 


86  THE  MC  FIXER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

been  too  presumptuous  in  my  hopes  ;  I  fancied  mystlf  beloved 
by  your  beautiful  daughter,  but  I  have  found  myself  painfully 
mistaken." 

Sternness  gathered  on  the  brow  of  the  father  as  he  heard, 
and  he  answered,  with  painful  emphasis — 

"  St.  Eval,  deceive  me  not,  I  charge  you.  In  what  position 
do  you  now  stand  with  Caroline  ?" 

"  Briefly,  then,  if  I  must  speak,  in  the  humble  character  of 
a  rejected,  scornfully  rejected  lover."  His  feelings  carried 
him  beyond  control.  The  triumph  he  had  seen  glittering  so 
brightly  in  the  eyes  of  Caroline  had  for  the  time  turned  every 
emotion  into  gall  He  shrunk  from  the  agony  it  was  to  find  ha 
was  deceived  in  one  whom  he  had  believed  so  perfect. 

"Scorn  !  has  a  daughter  of  mine  acted  thus?  Encourage, 
and  then  scorn.  St.  Eval,  for  pity's  sake,  tell  me !  you  arc 
jesting;  it  is  not  of  Caroline  you  speak?"  So  spoke  the  now 
agonized  father,  for  every  hope  of  his  child's  singleness  of  mind 
and  purity  of  intention  appeared  at  once  blighted.  He  grasp- 
ed St.  Eval's  hand,  and  looked  on  him  witli  eyes  from  which, 
in  the  deep  disappointment  of  his  heart,  all  sternness  had  fled. 

';I  grieve  to  cause  you  pain,  my  dear  friend,"  replied  the 
young  Earl,  entering  at  once  into  the  father's  feelings,  ubut  it 
is  even  so.  Your  daughter  has  only  acted  as  many,  nay,  as  the 
majority  of  her  sex  are  fond  of  doing.  It  appears  that  you, 
too,  have  marked  what  might  be  termed  the  encouragement  she 
gave  me.  My  self-love  is  soothed,  for  I  might  otherwise  have 
deemed  my  hopes  were  built  on  the  unstable  foundation  of  folly 
and  presumption." 

"  And  condemnation  of  my  child  is  the  fruit  of  your  self- 
acquittal,  St.  ^val.  is  it  not  ?  You  despise  her  now  as  much  as 
you  have  loved  her."  and  Mr.  Hamilton  paced  the  room  with 
agitation. 

"  Would  almost  that  I  could  !''  exclaimed  St.  Eval  ;  the 
young  Earl  then  added,  despondingly.  "  no,  I  deny  not  that 
your  child  has  sunk  in  my  estimation ;  I  believed  her  exalted 
tar  above  the  majority  of  her  sex  ;  that  she,  apparently  all  soft- 
ness and  truth,  was  incapable  of  playing  with  the  most  sacred 
feelings  of  a  fellow-creature.  I  looked  on  her  as  faultless  ;  and 
though  the  veil  has  fallen  from  my  eyes,  it  tells  me  that  if  in 
Caroline  Hamilton  I  am  deceived,  it  is  useless  to  look  for  per- 
fection upon  earth.  Yet  I  cannot  tear  her  image  from  my 
Heart.  She  has  planted  misery  there  which  I  cannot  at  present 
gvercome  ;  but  if  that  triumph  yields  her  pleasure,  and  tends 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  87 

to  her  happiness,  be  it  so ;  my  farther  attention  shall  no  longer 
annoy  her." 

Much  disturbed.  Mr.  Hamilton  continued  to  pace  the  room> 
then  hastily  approaching  the  young  Earl,  he  said,  hurriedly — 

"  Forget  her,  St.  Eval,  forget  her ;  rest  not  till  you  have 
regained  your  peace.  My  disappointment,  that  of  her  mother 
-—our  long-cherished  hopes,  but  it  is  useless  to  speak  of  them, 
to  bring  them  forward,  bitter  as  they  are,  in  comparison  with 
yours.  Forget  her,  St.  Eval ;  she  is  unworthy  of  you,"  ana  he 
wrung  his  hand  again  and  again,  as  if  in  that  pressure  he 
could  conquer  and  conceal  his  feelings.  At  that  instant  Emme- 
line  bounded  joyfully  into  the  room,  unconscious  that  any  one 
was  with  her  father,  and  only  longed  to  tell  him  the  delightful 
news,  that  she  had  received  a  long,  long  letter  from  Mary,  tell- 
ing her  of  their  safe  arrival  at  Geneva,  at  which  place  Mrs. 
Greville  intended  to  remain  'for  a  fexv  weeks,  before  she  pro- 
ceeded more  southward. 

"  Look,  dear  papa,  is  not  this  worth  receiving  ?"  she  ex- 
claimed, holding  up  the  well-filled  letter,  and  looking  the  per- 
sonification of  innocent  and  radiant  happiness,  her  fair  luxuri- 
ant hair  pushed  in  disorder  from  her  open  forehead  and  flushed 
cheek,  her  blue  eyes  sparkling  with  irresistible  glee,  which  was 
greatly  heightened  by  her  glowing  smiles.  It  was  impossible 
to  look  on  Emmeline  without  feeling  every  ruffled  emotion 
suddenly  calmed ;  she  was  so  bright,  so  innocent,  so  fair  a 
thing,  that  if  peace  and  kindness  had  wished  to  take  up  their 
abode  on  earth,  they  could  not  have  found  a  fairer  form  where- 
in to  dwell.  As  St.  Eval  gazed  upon  the  animated  girl,  he 
could  not  h6lp  contrasting  her  innocent  and  light-hearted  plea- 
sure with  his  own  unmitigated  sorrow. 

"  Your  presence  and  your  joy  are  mistimed,  my  dear  Em- 
meline ;  your  father  appears  engaged,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
entering  almost  directly  after  her  child,  and  perceiving  by  one 
glance  at  her  husband's  face  that  something  had  chanced  to 
disturb  him.  "  Control  these  wild  spirits  for  a  time  till  he  is 
able  to  listen  to  you." 

"  Do  not  check  her,  my  dear  Emmeline,  I  am  not  particu- 
larly engaged.  If  St.  Eval  will  forgive  me,  I  would  gladly 
hear  some  news  of  our  dear  Mary/' 

'•  And  pray  let  me  hear  it  also.  You  know  how  interested 
I  am  in  this  dear  friend  of  yours,  Emmeline."  replied  St.  Eval, 
struggling  with  himself,  and  succeeding  "sufficiently  to  speak 
playfully;  for  he  and  Emmeline  had  contrived  to  become  such 


88  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

great  allies  and  intimate  friends,  that  by  some  sympathy  titles 
of  ceremony  were  seldom  used  between  them,  and  they  were 
Eugene  and  Emmeline  to  each  other,  as  if  they  were  indeed 
brother  and  sister. 

Laughingly  and  delightedly  Emmeline  imparted  the  con- 
tents of  her  letter,  which  afforded  real  pleasure  both  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  by  the  more  cheerful,  even  happier  stylo 
in  which  she  had  written. 

"  Now  do  you  not  think  I  ought  to  be  proud  of  my  friend, 
Master  Eugene  ?  is  she  not  one  worth  having?'1  demanded 
Einmeline,  sportively  appealing  to  the  young  Earl,  as  she  read 
to  her  father  some  of  Mary's  affectionate  expressions  and 
wishes  in  the  conclusion.  • 

"  So  much  so,  that  I  am  seized  with  an  uncontrollable  de- 
sire to  know  her,  and  if  you  will  only  give  me  a  letter  of  in- 
troduction, I  will  set  off  for  Geneva  next  week." 

Emmeline  raised  her  laughing  eyes  to  his  face,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  unfeigned  amazement. 

"  A  most  probable  circumstance,"  she  said,  laughing  ;  "  no, 
Lord  St.  Eval,  you  will  not  impose  thus  on  my  credulity. 
Eugene  St  Eval,  the  most  courted,  flattered,  and  distinguish- 
ed, leave  London  before  the  season  is  over — impossible." 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  pretty  compliments  you  are  shower- 
ing on  me,  my  little  fairy  friend,  but  it  is  nevertheless  true. 
I  leave  England  for  the  Continent  next  week,  and  I  may  as 
well  bend  my  wandering  steps  to  Geneva  as  elsewhere." 

"But  what  can  you  possibly  be  going  on  the  Continent 
again  for?  I  am  sure,  by  all  the  anecdotes  you  have  told  me, 
you  must  have  seen  ail  that  is  worth  seeing,  and  so*why  should 
poor  England  again  be  deserted  by  one  of  the  ablest  of  her 
sons?" 

"  Emmeline  !"  exclaimed  her  mother,  in  an  accent  of  warn- 
ing and  reproach,  which  brought  a  deep  crimson  flush  to  her 
cheek,  and  caused  her  eyes  to  glisten,  for  Mrs.  Hamilton  had 
marked  that  all  was  not  serene  on  the  countenance  of  the  Earl, 
and  her  heart  beat  with  .anxious  alarm ;  for  she  knew  his  in- 
tentions with  regard  to  Caroline,  and  all  she  beheld  and  heard, 
startled,  almost  terrified  her.  Lord  St.  Eval  certainly  looked 
a  little  disturbed  at  Einmeline's  continued  questions,  and  per- 
ceiving it,  she  hesitatingly  but  frankly  said — 

'•  I  really  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,  for  my  unjustifiable 
curiosity;  mamma  is  always  reproving  me  for  it,  and  certainly 
I  deserve  her  lecture  now.  But  will  you  really  find  out  Mary 
and  be  the  bearer  of  a  small  parcel  for  me  ?" 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  89 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure  ;  for  it  will  give  mo  an  ob- 
ject, which  I  had  not  before,  and  a  most  pleasing  one,  if  I 
may  hope  your  friend  will  not  object  to  my  intrusion." 

';  A  friend  of  mine  will  ever  be  warmly  welcomed  by  Mary," 
said  Emmeline,  with  eagerness,  but  checking  herself. 

"  Then  may  I  hope  you  will  continue  to  regard  me  as  your 
friend,  and  still  speak  of  me  as  Eugene,  though  perhaps  a  year 
or  more  may  pass  before  you  see  me  again  ?"  demanded  the 
young  Earl,  somewhat  sadly,  glancing  towards  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, as  if  for  her  approval.  / 

-  As  my  brother  Eugene — yes,"  answered  Emmeline, 
quickly,  and  perhaps  archly.  A  shadow  passed  over  his  brow. 

••  As  your  friend  "  he  repeated,  laying  an  emphasis  on  the 
word,  which  to  any  one  less  innocent  of  the  world  than  Em- 
meline, would  at  once  have  excited  their  suspicion,  and  which 
single  word  at  once  told  Mrs.  Hamilton  that  all  her  cherished 
hopes  were  blighted.  She  read  confirmation  in  her  husband's 
countenance,  and  for  a  few  minutes  stood  bewildered. 

';  I  leave  town  in  a  few  hours  for  my  father's  seat,"  added 
St.  Eval,  turning  to  Mrs.  Hamilton.  "  I  may  amuse  myself 
by  taking  Devonshire  in  my  way,  or  rather  going  out  of  my 
way  for  that  purpose.  Have  you  any  commands  at  Oakwood 
that  I  can  perform?1' 

Mrs.  Hamilton  answered  thankfully  in  the  negative,  but 
Emmeline  exclaimed — 

"  I  have  a  good  mind  to  make  you  bearer  of  a  letter  and  a 
gage  ff 'amour  to  my  good  old  nurse  ;  she  will  be  so  delighted 
to  hear  of  me,  and  her  postman  a  nobleman.  Poor  nurse 
will  have  food  for  conversation  and  pleasurable  reflection  till 
we  return." 

"  Any  thing  you  like,  only  make  me  of  use ;  and  let  me 
have  it  in  an  hour's  time,  or  perhaps  I  can  give  you  two  " 

"  One  will  be  all-sufficient ;  but  what  a  wonderful  desire  to 
be  useful  has  seized  you  all  in  a  minute,"  replied  Emmeline, 
•whose  high  spirits  appeared  on  that  day  utterly  uncontrollable, 
and  she  ran  on  unmindful  of  her  mother's  glance.  "'  But  if  I 
really  do  this,  I  must  bid  you  farewell  at  once,  or  I  shall  have 
no  time.  Think  of  me,  if  any  thing  extraordinary  meets  your 
eye.  or  occurs  to  you,  and  treasure  it  up  for  my  information,  as 
you  know  my  taste  for  the  marvellous.  My  letter  to  Mary 
shall  be  forwarded  to  you.  for  I  really  depend  on  your  seek- 
ing her,  and  telling  her  all  about  us ;  and  now,  then,  with 
every  wish  for  your  pleasant  journey,  I  must  wish  you  good« 
bye." 


90  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  Good-bye,  dear,  happy  Emmeline,"  lie  said,  with  earnest' 
ness.  "May  you  be  as  light-hearted  and  joyous,  and  as  kind 
when  we  met  again  as  now :  ruay  I  commission  you  with  my 
warmest  remembrances  and  kind  adieus  to  your  cousin,  whom 
I  am  sorry  I  have  not  chanced  to  see  this  morning  ?" 

"  They  shall  be  duly  delivered,"  answered  Emmeline.  and 
Kissing  her  hand  gayly  in  adieu,  she  tripped  lightly  out  of  the 
room,  and  St.  Eval  instantly  turned  towards  Mrs.  Hamilton. 

"  In  this  intention  of  leaving  England  for  a  few  months, 
or  pernaps  a  year,"  he  said,  striving  for  calmness,  but  speaking 
in  a  tone  of  sadness,  "you  will  at  once  perceive  that  my  che- 
rished hopes  for  the  future  are  blighted.  I  will  not  linger  on 
the  subject,  for  I  cannot  yet  bear  disappointment  such  as  this 
with  composure.  Were  I  of  different  mould,  I  might,  spite  of 
coldness  and  pride,  continue  my  addresses ;  and  were  you  as 
other  parents  are,  Caroline — Miss  Hamilton  might  still  be 
mine  ;  a  fashionable  marriage  it  would  still  be,  but,  thank 
God,  such  will  not  be;  even  to  bestow  your  child  on  one  you 
might  value  more  than  me,  you  would  not  trample  on  her  af- 
fections, you  would  not  consent  that  she  should  be  an  unwill- 
ing bride,  and  I — oh  !  I  could  not — could  not  wed  with  one 
who  loved  me  not.  My  dream  of  happiness  has  ended — been 
painfully  dispelled ;  the  blow  was  unexpected,  and  has  found 
me  unprepared.  I  leave  England,  lest  my  ungoverned  feelings 
should  lead  me  wrong.  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  he  continued,  more 
vehemently,  "  you  understand  my  peculiar  feelings,  and  can  well 
guess  the  tortures  I  am  now  enduring.  You  know  why  I  am 
reserved,  because  I  dread  the  outbreak  of  emotion  even  in  the 

most  trifling  circumstances.      Oh,  to  have  been  your  son :' 

he  paused  abruptly,  and  hurriedly  paced  the  room.  "  Forgive 
me,"  he  said,  more  calmly.  "  Only  say  you  approve  of  my  re- 
solution to  seek  change  for  a  short  time,  till  I  obtain  self-go- 
vernment, and  can  behold  her  without  pain ;  say  that  I  am 
doing  right  for  myself.  I  cannot  think." 

"  You  are  right,  quite  right,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton  in- 
stantly, and  her  husband  confirmed  her  words.  "I  do  approve 
your  resolution,  though  deeply,  most  deeply,  I  regret  its  cause, 
St  Eval.  Your  disappointment  is  most  bitter,  but  y<>u 
grieve  not  alone.  To  have  given  Caroline  to  you,  to  behold 
her  your  wife,  would  have  fulfilled  every  fervent  wish  of  which 
she  is  the  object.  Not  you  alone  have  been  deceived  ;  her 
conduct  has  been  such  as  to  mislead  those  who  have  known 
her  from  childhood.  St.  Eval,  she  is  not  worthy  of  you." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  91 

Disappointed,  not  only  at  the  blighting  of  every  secret  hope, 
not  those  alone  in  which  St.  Eval  was  concerned,  but  every 
fond  thought  she  had  indulged  in  the  purity  and  integrity 
of  her  child,  in  which,  though  her  confidence  had  been 
given  to  another,  she  had  still  implicitly  trusted,  the  most 
bitter  disappointment  and  natural  displeasure  filled  that 
mother's  heart,  and  almost  for  the  first  time  since  their  union 
Mr.  Hamilton  could  read  this  unwonted  emotion,  in  one  usually 
so  gentle,  in  her  kindling  eyes  and  agitated  voice. 

''  Child  of  my  heart,  my  hopes,  my  care,  as  she  is,  I  must 
yet  speak  it,  forget  her  Eugene  ;  let  not  the  thought  of  a  de- 
ceiver, a  coquette,  debar  you  from  the  possession  of  that  peace 
which  should  ever  be  the  portion  of  one  so  truly  honorable, 
so  wholly  estimable  as  yourself.  You  are  disappointed,  pained ; 
but  you  know  not — cannot  guess  the  agony  it  is  to  find  the  in- 
tegrity in  which  I  so  fondly  trusted  is  as  nought ;  that  my 
child,  my  own  child,  whom  I  had  hoped  to  lead  through  life 
without  a  stain,  is  capable  of  such  conduct." 

Emotion  choked  her  voice.  She  had  been  carried  on  by 
the  violence  of  her  feelings,  and  perhaps  said  more  in  that  mo- 
ment of  excitement  than  she  either  ^fished  or  intended. 

St.  Eval  gazed  on  the  noble  woman  before  him  with  un- 
feigned admiration.  Ho  saw  the  indignation,  the  displeasure 
which  she  felt ;  it  heightened  the  dignity  of  her  character  in 
his  estimation  :  but  he  now  began  to  tremble  for  its  effects  up- 
on her  child. 

:i  Do  not,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  he  said,  with  some  he- 
sitation, "  permit  Miss  Hamilton's  rejection  of  me  to  excite 
your  displeasure  towards  her.  If  with  me  she  could  not  be 
happy,  she  was  right  to  refuse  my  hand.  Let  me  not  have  the 
misery  of  feeling  I  have  caused  dissension  in  a  family  whose 
beautiful  unity  has  ever  bound  me  to  it.  Surely  you  would 
not  urge  the  affections  of  your  child." 

';  Never,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  earnestly.  "  I  under- 
stand your  fears,  but  let  them  pass  away.  I  shall  urge  nothing, 
but  my  duty  I  must  do.  Much  as  I  admire  the  exalted  senti- 
ments you  express,  I  must  equally  deplore  the  mistaken  con- 
duct of  my  child.  She  has  wilfully  sported  with  the  most  sa- 
cred of  human  feelings.  Once  more  I  say.  she  is  not  worthy 
to  be  yours."  • 

The  indignation  and  strong  emotion  still  lingering  in  her 
voice  convinced  St.  Eval  that  he  might  urge  no  more.  Ke» 
Epectfuliy  he  took  his  leave. 


92  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MRS.  HAMILTON  sat  -silently  revolving  in  her  mind  all  Caro- 
line's late  conduct,  .but  vainly  endeavoring  to  discover  one 
single  good  reason  to  justify  her  rejection  of  St.  Eval.  In 
vain  striving  to  believe  all  must  have  been  mistaken,  she  had 
not  given  him  encouragement.  That  her  affections  could  have 
become  secretly  engaged  was  a  thing  so  unlikely,  that  even 
when  Mrs.  Hamilton  suggested  it,  both  she  and  her  husband 
banished  the  idea  as  impossible ;  for  St.  Eval  alone  had  she 
evinced  any  marked  preference. 

"  You  must  speak  to  her,  Emirteline,  I  dare  not;  for  I  feel 
too  angry  and  disappointed  to  argue  calmly.  She  has  deceived 
us ;  all  your  cares  appear  to  have  been  of  no  avail ;  all  the 
watchful  tenderness  with  whjch  she  has  been  treated  thus  re- 
turned !  I  could  have  forgiven  it,  I  would  not  have  said 
another  word,  if  she  had  conducted  herself  towards  him  with 
propriety  ;  but  to  give  him  encouragement,  such  as  all  who 
have  seen  them  together  must  have  remarked ;  to  attract  him 
by  every  winning  art.  to  chain  him  to  her  side,  and  then  re- 
ject him  with  scorn.  AVhal  could  have  caused  her  conduct, 
but  the  wish  to  display  her  power,  her  triumph  over  one  so 
superior?  Well  might  he  say  she  had  sunk  in  his  estimation. 
Why  did  we  not  question  her,  instead  of  thus  fondly  trusting 
in  her  integrity?  Emmeline,  we  have  trusted  our  child  too 
confidently,  and  thus  our  reliance  is  rewarded. 

Seldom,  if  ever,  had  Mrs.  Hamilton  seen  her  husband  so 
disturbed ;  for  some  little  time  she  remained  with  him,  and 
succeeded  partly  in  soothing  his  natural  displeasure.  She  then 
left  him  to  compose  her  own  troubled  and  disappointed  fee1- 
ings  ere  she  desired  the  presence  of  her  child.  Meanwhile, 
as  the  happy  Emmeline  went  to  prepare  her  little  packet  for 
her  dear  old  nurse,  the  thought  suddenly  arose  that  St.  Eval 
had  sent  his  remembrances  and  adieus  to  Ellen  only,  he  had 
not  mentioned  Caroline  ;  and,  unsophisticated  as  she  was,  this 
struck  her  as  something  very  strange,  and  she  was  not  long  in 
connecting  this  circumstance  with  his  sudden  departure.  Wild, 
pportive.  and  innocent  as  Emmeline  was,  she  yet  possessed  a 
depth  of  aeflcction  and  clearness  of  perception,  which  those 
who  only  knew  her  casually  might  not  have  expected.  She 
had  marked  with  extreme  pleasure  that  which  she  believed  the 
mutual  attachment  of  St.  Eval  and  her  sister;  and  with  her 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  93 

ready  fancy  ever  at  work,  had  indulged  very  often  in  airy 
visions,  in  which  she  beheld  Caroline  Countess  St.  Eval.  and 
mistress  of  that  beautiful  estate  in  Cornwall,  which  she  had 
heard  Mrs.  Hamilton  say  had  been  presented  by  the  Marquis 
of  Malvern  to  his  son  on  his  twenty-first  birthday.  Emiue- 
line  had  indulged  these  fancies,  and  noticed  the  conduct  of 
Caroline  and  St.  Eval  till  she  really  believed  their  union  would 
take  place.  She  had  been  so  delighted  at  the  receipt  of  Mary's 
letter,  that  she  had  no  time  to  remember  the  young  Earl's  de- 
parture ;  but  when  she  was  alone,  that  truth  suddenly  flashed 
across  her  mind,  and  another  strange  incident,  though  at  the 
time  she  had  not  remarked  it,  when  she  had  said  as  her  brother 
she  would  remember  him,  he  had  repeated,  with  startling  em- 
phasis, "  as  her  friend."  "  What  could  it  all  mean  ?"  she 
thought,  "Caroline  cannot  have  rejected  him?  No,  that  is 
quite  impossible.  My  sister  would  surely  not  be  such  a  prac- 
tised coquette  ;  I  must  seek  her  and  have  the  mystery  solved. 
Surely  she  will  be  sorry  St.  Eval  leaves  us  so  soon." 

Emmeline  hastened  first  to  Ellen,  begging  her  to  pack  up 
the  little  packet  for  Mrs.  Langford.  for  she  knew  such  an  op- 
portunity would  be  as  acceptable  tdWier  cousin  as  to  herself; 
for  Ellen  never  forgot  the  humble  kindness  and  prompt  atten- 
tion she  had  received  from  the  widow  during  her  long  and  te- 
dious illness ;  but  by  little  oiferings.  and  what  the  good  woman 
still  more  valued,  by  a  few  kind  and  playful  lines,  which  ever 
accompanied  them,  she  endeavored  to  prove  her  sense  of 
Widow  Langford's  conduct. 

In  five  minutes  more  Emmeline  was  in  her  sister's  room. 
Caroline  was  partly  dressed  as  if  for  a  morning  drive,  and  her 
attendant  leaving  just  as  her  sister  entered.  She  looked  pale 
and  more  fatigued  than  usual,  from  the  gayety  of  the  preceding 
night.  Happy  she  certainly  did  not  look,  and  forgetting  in 
that  sight  the  indignation  which  the  very  supposition  of  coquetry 
in  her  sister  had  excited,  Emmeline  gently  approached  her, 
and  kissing  her  cheek,  said,  fondly — 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  Caroline  ?  You  look  ill.  wearied, 
and  even  melancholy.  Did  you  dance  more  than  usual  last 
night?" 

'•  No,"  replied  Caroline  ;  "  I  believe  not.  I  do  not  think  I 
am  more  tired  than  usual.  But  what  do  you  come  for,  Em- 
meline ?  Some  reason  must  bring  you  here,  for  you  are  gen- 
erally hard  at  work  at  this  time  of  the  day." 

':  My  wits  have  been  so  disturbed  by  Mary'sr  letter,  that  I 


94  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

have  been  unable  to  settle  to  any  thing,"  replied  her  sister, 
laughing;  "and  to  add  to  their  disturbance,  I  have  just  heard 
something  so  strange,  that  I  could  not  resist  coming  to  tell 
you." 

"  Of  what  nature  ?" 

"  St.  Eval  leaves  London  to-day  for  Castle  Malvern,  and 
next  week  quits  England.  Now  is  not  that  extraordinary  ?" 

Caroline  became  suddenly  flushed  with  crimson,  which 
quickly  receding,  left  her  even  paler  than  before. 

"  She  is  innocent,"  thought  Emmeline.  "  She  loves  him. 
St.  Eval  must  have  behaved  ill  to  her ;  and  yet  he  certainly 
looked  more  sinned  against  than  sinning." 

':  To-day  :  does  he  leave  to-day  ?"  Caroline  said,  at  length, 
speaking,  it  appeared,  with  effort,  and  turning  to  avoid  her 
sister's  glance. 

(;  In  little  more  than  an  hour's  t,\me  ;  but  I  am  sorry  I  told 
you.  dear  Caroline,  if  the  news  has  pained  you." 

"  Pained  me,"  repeated  her  sister,  with  returning  haughti- 
ness ;  "what  can  you  mean,  Emmeline?  Lord  St.  Eval  is 
nothing  to  me." 

"  Nothing  !"  repeated  the  astonished  girl.  "  Caroline,  you 
are  incomprehensible.  Why  did  you  treat  him  with  such 
marked  attention  if  you  cared  nothing  for  him?" 

"  For  a  very  simple  reason ;  because  it  gave  me  pleasure 
to  prove  that  it  was  in  my  power  to  do  that  for  which  other 
girls  have  tried  in  vain — compel  the  proud  lordly  St.  Eval  to 
bow  to  a  woman's  will."  Pride  had 'returned  again.  She  felt 
the  pleasure  of  triumphant  power,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  and 
her  cheek  again  flushed,  but  with  a  different  emotion  to  that 
she  had  felt  before. 

'•  Do  you  mean,  then,  that  you  have  never  loved  him,  and 
merely  sported  with  his  feelings,  for  your  own  amusement  ?  Caro- 
line, I  will  not  believe  it.  You  could  not  have  acted  with  such 
cruelty;  you  do  love  him,  but  you  reject  niy  confidence.  I  do 
not  ask  you  to  confide  in  me,  though  I  did  hope  I  should  have 
been  your  chosen  friend ;  but  I  beseech.  I  implore  you,  Caro- 
line, only  to  say  that  you  are  jesting.  You  do  love  him." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Emmeline,  never  more  so  in  your  life. 
I  have  refused  his  offered  hand ;  if  you  wish  my  confidence 
on  this  subject,  I  give  it  you.  As  he  is  a  favorite  of  yours,  I 
do  not  doubt  your  preserving  his  secret  inviolate.  I  might 
have  been  Countess  of  St.  Eval,  but  my  end  was  accomplished, 
and  I  dismissed  my  devoted  cavalier." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  95 

{>  And  can  you.  dare  you  jest  on  such  a  subject  ?"  exclaimed 
Emmeline,  indignantly.  ';  Is  it  possible  you  can  have  wilfully 
acted  thus  ?  sported  with  the  feelings  of  such  a  man  as  St.  Eval, 
laughed  at  his  pain,  called  forth  his  love  to  gratify  your  desire  of 
power  ?  Caroline,  shame  on  you  !" 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  being  schooled  as  to  right  and 
wrong  by  a  younger  sister,  nor  will  I  put  up  with  it  now,  Em- 
meline. I  never  interfere  with  your  conduct,  and  therefore 
you  will,  if  you  please,  do  the  same  with  me.  I  am  not  respon- 
sible to  you  for  my  actions,  nor  shall  I  ever  be,"  replied  Caro- 
line, with  cold  yet  angry  pride. 

li  But  I  will  speak  when  I  know  you  have  acted  contrary 
to  those  principles  mamma  has  ever  endeavored  to  instil  into 
us  both,"  replied  Emmeline,  still  indignantly ;  And  you  are 
and  have  been  ever  welcome  to  remonstrate  with  me.  I  am  not 
so  weak  as  I  once  was,  fearful  to  speak  my  sentiments  even 
when  I  knew  them  to  be  right.  You  have  acted  shamefully, 
cruelly,  Caroline,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think,  angry  as  it 
may  make  you." 

A  haughty  and  contemptuous  answer  rose  to  Caroline's 
lips,  but  she  was  prevented  giving  it  utterance  by  the  entrance 
of  Martyn.  her  mother's  maid,  with  her  lady's  commands,  that 
Miss  Hamilton  should  attend  her  in  the  boudoir. 

"  How  provoking  !"  she  exclaimed.  t:  I  expect  Annie  to  call 
for  roe  every  minute,  and  mamma  will  perhaps  detain  me  half 
an  hour;  and  most  unwillingly  she  obeyed  the  summons. 

"  Annie,"  repeated  Emmeline.  when  her  sister  had  left  the 
room,  "  Annie — this  is  her  work ;  if  my  sister  had  not  been 
thus  intimate  with  her  she  never  would  have  acted  in  this  man- 
ner." And  so  disturbed  was  the  gentle  girl  at  this  confirmation 
of  her  fears,  that  it  was  some  little  time  before  she  could  recover 
sufficient  serenity  to  rejoin  Ellen  in  arranging  the  widow's 
packet. 

Mrs.  Langford  had  the  charge  of  Oakwaod  during  the 
absence  of  the  family,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  recollecting  some 
affairs  concerning  the  village  schools  she  wished  the  widow  to 
attend  to,  was  writing  her  directions  as  Caroline  entered,  much 
to  the  latter's  increased  annoyance,  as  her  mother's  business 
with  her  would  thus  be  retarded,  and  every  minute  drew  the 
time  of  Annie's  appointment  nearer.  She  could  scarcely  con- 
ceal her  impatience,  and  did  venture  to  beg  her  mother  to  tell 
her  what  she  required. 

"  Your  attention,  Caroline,  for  a  time,"  she  replied,  so  coldly, 


96  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

that  her  daughter  felt  instantly  something  was  wrong,  though 
what  she  guessed  not,  for  she  knew  not  that  St.  Eval  had  ob- 
tained the  sanction  of  her  parents  for  his  addresses  ;  and  she 
little  imagined  he  could  have  any  thing  to  do  with  the  displea- 
sure she  saw  so  clearly  marked. 

"You  will  wait,  if  you  please,  till  I  have  finished  writing,  as 
this  cannot  be  delayed.  Lord  St.  Eval  leaves  town  in  a  very 
short  time,  and  I  send  this  by  him." 

"  Lord  St.  Eval,"  thought  Caroline,  suddenly  becoming 
alarmed,  "  surely  mannma  and  papa  know  nothing  of  his  offer." 

A  few  minutes  passed  in  silence,  which  was  broken  by  the 
sound  of  carriage-wheels  stopping  at  the  door,  and  Robert 
almost  instantly  after  entered  with  Miss  Grahame's  love,  say- 
ing she  could  not  wait  a  minute,  and  hoped  Miss  Hamilton  was 
ready. 

"•  Miss  Grahame !"  repeated  Mrs.  Hamilton,  in  an  accent 
of  surprise,  before  Caroline  had  time  to  make  any  answer ; 
"Caroline,  why  have  you  not  mentioned  this  engagement? 
Yon  do  not  generally  make  appointments  without  at  least 
consulting  me,  if  you  no  longer  think  it  necessary  to  request 
my  permission.  Where  are  you  going  with  Annie  ?" 

"  To  Oxford  Street,  I  believe,"  she  answered  carelessly,  to 
conceal  her  rising  indignation  at  this  interference  of  her 
mother. 

"  If  you  require  any  thing  there,  you  can  go  with  me  by  and 
by.  Robert,  give  my  compliments  to  Miss  Grahame,  and  say 
from  me.  Miss  Hamilton  is  particularly  engaged  with  me  at 
present,  and  therefore  cannot  keep  her  engagement  to-day. 
Return  here  as  soon  as  you  have  delivered  my  message." 

"  Mother  !"  burst  from  Caroline's  lips,  in  an  accent  of  un- 
controllable anger,  as  soon  as  the  servant  had  left  the  room ; 
but  with  a  strong  effort  she  checked  herself,  and  hastily  walked 
to  the  window. 

An  expression  of  extreme  pain  passed  across  her  mother's 
features  as  she  looked  towards  her,  but  she  took  no  notice  till 
Robert  had  returned,  and  had  been  dismissed  with  her  note  to 
be  given  to  Emmeline  to  transmit  with  hers. 

"  Caroline,"  she  then  said,  with  dignity,  yet  perhaps  less 
coldly  than  before,  "  if  you  will  give  me  your  attention  for  a 
short  time,  you  will  learn  the  cause  of  my  displeasure,  which  is 
perhaps  at  present  incomprehensible,  unless, 'indeed,  your  own 
conscience  has  already  reproached  you ;  but  before  I  com- 
mence on  any  other  subject,  I  must  request  that  you  will 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  97 

make  no  more  appointments  with  Miss  Grahame  without  my 
permission.  This  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  done  so ;  I 
have  not  noticed  it  previously,  because  I  thought  your  own 
good  sense  would  have  told  you  that  you  were  acting  wrong, 
and  contrary  to  those  principles  of  candor  I  believed  you  to 
possess/' 

i{  You  were  always  prejudiced  against  Annie,"  answered 
Caroline,  with  raising  anger,  for  she  had  quite  determined  not 
to  sit  silent  while  her  mother  spoke,  cost  what  it  raight. 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  Annie,  Caroline,  but  to  you.  The 
change  in  your  conduct  since  you  have  become  thus  intimate 
with  her.  might  indeed  justify  my  prejudice,  but  on  that  I  am 
not  now  dwelling.  I  do  not  consider  Miss  Malison  a  fit  cha- 
peron for  my  daughter,  and  therefore  I  desire  you  will  not 
again  join  her  in  her  drives." 

•'  Every  other  girl  of  my  station  has  the  privilege  of  at 
least  choosing  her  own  companions  without  animadversion," 
replied  Caroline,  indignantly,  ':  and  in  the  simple  thing  of 
making  appointments  without  interference  it  is  hard  that  I 
alone  am  to  be  an  exception." 

11  If  you  look  arotind  the  circle  in  which  I  visit  intimately, 
Caroline,  you  will  find  that  Jid  you  act  according  to  your  own 
wishes,  you  would  stand  more  alone  than.were  you  to  regard 
mine.  I  have  done  wrong  in  ever  allowing  you  to  be  as  inti- 
mate  with  Miss  Grahame  as  you  are.  You  looked  surprised 
and  angry  when  I  mentioned  the  change  that  had  taken  place 
in  your  conduct/' 

"I  had  sufficient  reason  for  surprise,"  replied  Caroline, 
impatiently  ;  "  I  was  not  aware  that  my  character  was  so  weak, 
as  to  turn  and  change  with  every  new  acquaintance." 

"  Are  you  then  the  same  girl  you  were  at  Oakwood  ?"  de- 
manded Mrs.  Hamilton,  gravely  yet  sadly. 

A  sudden  pang  of  conscience  smote  the  heart  of  the  mis- 
taken girl  at  these  words,  a  sob  rose  choking  in  her  throat, 
and  she  longed  to  have  given  vent  to  the  tears  which  pride, 
anger,  and  remorse  were  summoning,  but  she  would  not,  and 
answered  according  to  those  evil  whisperings,  which  before  she 
had  only  indulged  in  secret. 

"  If  I  am  changed,"  she  answered  passionately,  "  it  is  be- 
cause neither  you  nor  papa  are  the  same,  At  Oakwood  I  was 
free.  I  had  full  liberty  to  act,  speak,  think  as  I  pleased,  while 
here  a  chain  is  thrown  around  my  simplest  action  ;  my  very 
words  are  turned  into  weapons  against  me ;  my  friendship  dia- 
5 


98  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

approved  of,  and  in  that  at  least  surely  I  may  have  liberty  to 
choose  .x>r  myself." 

"  You  have,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  mildly.  £:  I  complain 
not,  Caioline,  of  the  pain  you  have  inflicted  upon  me,  in  so 
completely  withdrawing  your  confidence  and  friendship,  to 
bestow  them  upon  a  young  girl.  I  control  not  your  affection, 
but  it  is  my  duty,  and  I  will  obey  it,  to  warn  you  when  I  see 
your  favorite  companion  likely  to  lead  you  wrong.  Had  your 
every  thought  and  feeling  been  open  to  my  inspection  as  at 
Oakwood,  would  you  have  trifled  as  you  have  with  the  most 
sacred  feelings  of  a  fellow  creature  ?  would  you  have  called 
forth  love  by  every  winning  art,  by  marked  preference,'  to 
reject  it,  when  acknowledged,  with  scorn,  with  triumph  ill-con- 
cealed ?  would  you  have  sported  thus,  with  a  heart  whose 
affections  would  do  honor  to  the  favored  one  on  whom  they 
were  bestowed  ?  would  you  have  cast  aside  in  this  manner  all 
that  integrity  and  honor  I  hoped  and  believed  were  your  own? 
Caroline,  you  have  disappointed  and  deceived  your  parents  ; 
you  have  blighted  their  fondest  hopes,  and  destroyed,  sinfully 
destroyed,  the  peace  of  a  noble,  virtuous,  excellent  young  man, 
who -loved  you  with  all  the  deep  fervor  of  an  enthusiastic  soul. 
To  have  beheld  him  your  husband  would  have  fulfilled  every 
wish,  every  hspe  entertained  by  your  father  and  myself.  I 
would  have  intrusted  your  happiness  to  his  care  without  one 
doubt  arising  within  me  ;  and  you  have  spurned  his  offer,  re- 
jected him  without  reason,  without  regret,  without  sympathy 
for  his  wounded  and  disappointed  feelings,  without  giving  him 
one  hope  that  in  time  his  affections  might  be  returned.  Caro- 
line, why  have  you  thus  decidedly  rejected  him  ?  what  is  there 
in  the  young  man  you  see  to  bid  you  tremble  for  your  future 
happiness?" 

Caroline  answered  not ;  she  had  leaned  her  arms  on  the 
cushion  of  the  couch,  and  buried  her  face  upon  them,  while  her 
mother  spoke,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  in  vain  waited  for  her  reply. 

"  Caroline,"  she  continued,  in  a  tone  of  such  appealing  affec- 
tion, it  seemed  strange  that  it  touched  not  the  heart  of  her 
child,  "  Caroline,  I  will  not  intrude  on  your  confidence,  but 
one  question  I  must  ask.  and  I  implore  you  to  answer  me  truly 
— do  you  love  another  ?" 

Still  Caroline  spoke  not,  moved  not.  Her  mother  con- 
tinued, "  If  you  do,  why  should  you  hide  it  from  me,  your  own 
mother,  Caroline?  You  believe  my  conduct  changed  towards 
yoUj  but  you  have  condemned  me  without  proof.  You.  have 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  99 

abandoned  my  sympathy — shrunk  from  my  love.  Try  me  now, 
my  sweet  child  ,  if  you  love  another,  confess  it,  and  we  will  do 
what  we  can  to  make  that  love  happy ;  if  it  be  returned,  why 
should  you  conceal  it?  and  if  it  be  not,  Caroline,  my  child,  will 
you  refuse  even  the  poor  comfort  your  mother  can  bestow  ?" 

She  spoke  in  vain  ;  but  could  she  have  read  her  daughter's 
heart  at  that  moment,  maternal  affection  might  not  have  been 
so  deeply  pained  as  it  was  by  this  strange  silence.  Regret, 
deep,  though  unavailing,  had  been  Caroline's  portion,  from  the 
moment  she  had  reflected  soberly  on  her  rejection  of  St.  Eval. 
She  recalled  his  every  word,  his  looks  of  respectful  yet  ardent 
admiration,  and  she  wept  at  that  infatuation  which  had  bade 
her  act  as  she  had  done ;  and  then  his  look  of  controlled  con- 
tempt stung  her  to  the  quick.  He  meant  not,  perhaps,  that 
his  glance  should  have  so  clearly  denoted  that  she. had  sunk  in 
his  estimation,  it  did  not  at  the  moment,  but  it  did  when  in 
solitude  she  recalled  it.  and  she  felt  that  she  deserved  it.  In 
vain  in  those  moments  did  she  struggle  to  call  up  the  vision  of 
Lord  Alphingham,  his  words  of  love,  his  looks  of  even  more 
fervid  passion,  his  image  would  not  rise  to  banish  that  of  St. 
Eval ;  and  if  Caroline  had  not  still  been  blinded  by  the  influ- 
ence and  arguments  of  Annie,  had  she  given  her  own  good 
sense  one  half-hour's  uncontrolled  dominion,  she  would  have 
discovered,  that  if  love  had  secretly  and  unsuspiciously  entered 
her  heart,  it  was  not  for  Lord  Alphingham.  Had  she  really 
loved  him,  she  could  not  have  resisted  the  fond  appeal  of  her 
mother  ;  but  to  express  in  words  all  the  confused  and  indefina- 
ble emotions  then  filling  her  heart  was  impossible.  She  con- 
tinued for  several  minutes  silent,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  felt  too 
deeply  pained  and  disappointed  to  speak  again.  Her  daugh- 
ter had  spoken  to  her  that  morning  as  she  had  seldom  done 
even  in  her  childhood.  Then  her  mother  could  look  forward  to 
years  of  reason  and  maturity  for  the  improvement  of  those 
errors  ;  now  others  had  arisen,  and  if  her  control  were  once  so 
entirely  thrown  aside,  could  she  ever  regain  sufficient  influence 
to  lead  her  right.  Seldom  had  Caroline's  conduct  given  her  so 
much  pain  as  in  the  disclosures  and  events  of  that  morning. 

"  Is  it  absolutely  necessary,"  Caroline  at  length  said,  sum- 
moning, as  her  aunt  Eleanor  had  often  done,  pride  to  drown  the 
whisperings  of  conscience,  "  that  I  must  love  another,  because 
I  rejected  Lord  St.  Eval?  In  such  an  important  step  as  mar- 
riage, I  should  imagine  my  own  inclinations  were  the  first  to 
be  consulted.  It  would  be  strange  indeed,  if.  after  all  I  hava 


100  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

heard  you  say  on  the  evil  of  forcing  young  women  to  marry, 
that  you  should  compel  your  own  child  to  accept  the  first  offer 
she  received." 

'•  You  do  me  injustice,  Caroline,"  replied  her  mother,  con- 
trolling with  an  effort  natural  displeasure ;  "  St.  Eval  would  not 
accept  an  unwilling  bride,  nor  after  what  has  passed  would  your 
father  and  myself  deem  you  worthy  to  become  his  wife." 

"  Then  long  may  this  paragon  of  excellence  remain  away," 
replied  Caroline,  with  indignant  haughtiness  kindling  in  every 
feature.  4i  I  have  no  wish  ever  to  associate  again  with  one  by 
whose  side  I  am  deemed  so  unworthy,  even  by  my  parents." 

"  Those  who  love  you  best,  Caroline,  are  ever  the  first  to 
behold  and  deplore  your  faults.  Have  you  acted  honorably  ; 
have  you  done  worthily  in  exciting  love  merely  to  give  pain,  to 
amuse  and  gratify  your  own  love  of  power?" 

"  I  have  done  no  more  than  other  girls  do  with  impunity, 
without  even  notice ;  and  surely  that  which  is  so  generally 
practised  cannot  demand  such  severe  censure  as  you  bestow 
on  it." 

"  And  therefore  you  would  make  custom  an  excuse  for  sin, 
Caroline.  Would  you  have  spoken  thus  a  few  months  since? 
would  you  have  questioned  the  justice  of  your  mother's  sen- 
tences ?  and  yet  you  say  you  are  not  changed.  Is  it  any  ex- 
cuse for  a  wrong  action,  because  others  do  it?  Had  you  been 
differently  instructed  it  might  be,  but  not  when  from  your 
earliest  years  I  have  endeavoured  to  reason  with,  and  to  con- 
vince you  of  the  sin  of  coquetry,  to  which  from  a  child  you 
have  been  inclined.  You  have  acted  more  sinfully  than  many 
whose  coquetry  has  been  more  general.  You  devoted  yourself 
to  one  alone,  encouraged,  nattered,  because  you  say  he  was  al- 
ready attracted,  instead  of  adhering  to  that  distant  behavior 
which  would  have  at  once  told  him  you  could  feel  no  more  for 
him  than  as  a  friend.  You  would  have  prevented  future  suf- 
fering, by  banishing  from  the  first  all  secret  hopes  ;  but  no,  you 
wished  to  prove  you  could  accomplish  more  than  ethers,  by 
captivating  one  so  reserved  and  superior  as  St.  Eval.  Do  not 
interrupt  me  by  a  denial,  Caroline,  for  you  dare  not  deliberately 
say  such  was  not  your  motive.  That  noble  integrity  which  I 
have  so  long  believed  your  own,  you  have  exiled  from  your 
heart.  Your  entire  conduct  towards  St.  Eval  has  been  one 
continued  falsehood,  and  are  you  then  worthy  to  be  united  to 
one  who  is  truth,  honor,  nobleness  itself '?  Had  you  loved 
another,  your  rejection  of  this  young  man  might  have  been. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  '01 

excused,  but  not  your  behavior  towards  him  ;  for  that  not  one 
good  reason  can  be  brought  forward  in  excuse.  I  am  speaking 
severely.  Caroline,  and  perhaps  my  every  word  may  alienate 
your  confidence  and  affection  still  farther  from  me  ;  but  my 
duty  shall  be  done,  painful  as  it  may  be  both  to  yourself  and 
me.  I  cannot  speak  tamely  on  a  subject  in  which  the  future 
character  and  welfare  of  my  child  are  concerned.  I  can  no . 
longer  trust  in  your  integrity.  Spite  of  your  change  in  man- 
ner and  in  feeling  towards  me,  I  still  confided  in  your  unsullied 
honor ;  that  I  can  no  longer  do  ;  you  have  forfeited  my  confi- 
dence, Caroline,  and  not  until  I  see  a  total  change  of  conduct, 
can  you  ever  hope  to  regain  it.  That  perhaps  <vill  not  grieve 
you,  as  it  would  once  have  done ;  but  unless  you  redeem  your 
character,"  she  continued,  "  the  serious  displeasure  of  both 
your  father  and  myself  will  be  yours,  and  we  shall,  in  all  pro- 
bability, find  some  means  of  withdrawing  you  from  the  society 
which  has  been  so  injurious  to  the  purity  of  your  character. 
Whatever  others  may  do,  it  is  your  duty  to  act  according  to 
the  principles  of  your  parents,  and  not  to  those  of  others ;  and 
therefore,  for  the  future.  I  desire  you  will  abide  by  my  crite- 
rion of  right  and  wrong,  and  not  by  the  misleading  laws  of 
custom.  When  you  have  conquered  the  irritation  and  anger 
which  my  words  have  occasioned,  you  may  perhaps  agree  to  the 
justice  of  what  I  have  said  ;  till  then  I  do  not  expect  it;  but 
whether  yuir  reason  approves  of  it  or  not,  1  desire  your  im- 
plicit obedience.  -If  you  have  any  thing  you  desire  to  do,  you 
may  leave  me,  Caroline,  I  do  not  wish  to  detain  you  any 
longer." 

In  silence,  too  sullen  to  give  any  hope  of  a  repentant  feel- 
ing or  judgment  convinced,  Caroline  had  listened  to  her  mo- 
ther's words.  They  were  indeed  unusually  severe  ;  but  her 
manner  from  the  beginning  of  that  interview  could  not  have 
lessened  the  displeasure  which  she  already  felt  We  have 
known  Mrs.  Hamilton  from  the  commencement  of  her  career 
when  as  a  girl  not  older  than  Caroline  herself,  she  mingled 
•with  the  world,  and  we  cannot  fail  to  have  perceived  her  detes- 
tation of  the  fashionable  sin  of  coquetry.  The  remembrance 
of  Eleanor  and  all  the  evils  she  entailed  upon  herself  by  the 
indulgence  of  that  sinful  fault,  were  still  vividly  acute,  and 
cost  what  it  might,  both  to  herself  and,  who  was  dearer  still, 
her  child,  she  would  do  her  duty,  and  endeavor  to  turn  her 
from  the  evil  path.  She  saw  that  Caroline  was  in  no  mood 
for  gentler  words  and  tenderness  to  have  any  effect,  and  there- 


102  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

fore,  though  at  variance  as  it  was  to  her  nature,  she  spoke  with 
some  severity  and  her  usual  unwavering  decision.  She  could 
read  no  promise  of  amendment  or  contrition  in  those  haughty 
and  sullen  features,  but  she  urged  no  more,  for  it  might  only 
exasperate  and  lead  her  farther  from  conviction. 

For  some  few  minutes  Caroline  remained  in  that  same  pos- 
ture. Evil  passions  of  varied  nature  suddenly  appeared  to 
gain  ascendency  in  that  innately  noble  heart,  and  prevented  all 
expressions  that  might  have  soothed  ner  mother's  solicitude.  ' 
Hastily  rising,  without  a  word,  she  abruptly  left  the  room, 
and  retired  to  her  own.  where  she  gave  vent  to  a  brief  but 
passionate  flood  of  tears,  but  they  cooled  not  the  fever  of  her 
brain ;  her  haughty  spirit  revolted  from  her  mother's  just 
severity. 

"  To  be  scolded,  threatened,  desired  to  obey  like  a  child,  an 
infant ;  what  girl  of  my  age  would  bear  it  tamely  ?  Well  might 
Anne  say  I  was  a  slave,  not  permitted  to  act  or  even  think 
according  to  my  own  discretion  ;  well  might  she  say  no  other 
mother  behaved  to  her  daughters  as  mine ;  to  be  kept  in  com- 
plete thraldom ;  to  be  threatened,  if  I  do  not  behave  better,  to 
be  removed  from  the  scenes  I  so  much  love,  buried  again  at 
home  I  suppose ;  is  it  a  wonder  I  am  changed  ?  Is  it  strange 
that  I  should  no  longer  feel  for  mamma  as  formerly  ?  and  even 
Emmeline  must  condemn  me,  call  me  to  account  for  my  ac- 
tions, and  my  intimacy  with  Anne  is  made  a  subject  of  reproach  ; 
but  if  I  do  no*,  see  her  as  often  as  before,  I  can  write,  thank 
heaven,  and  at  least  her  sympathy  and  affection  will  be  mine." 

Such  was  the  tenor  of  her  secret  thoughts,  and  she  followed 
them  up  by  writing  to  her  friend  a  lengthened  and  heightened 
description  of  all  that  had  occurred  that  morning,  dwelling 
long  and  indignantly  on  what  she  termed  the  cruel  and  un- 
just severity  of  her  mother,  and  imploring,  as  such  confidential 
letters  generally  did,  Annie's  secrecy  and  sympathy.  The 
epistle  was  dispatched,  and  quickly  answered,  in  a  style  which, 
as  might  be  imagined,  increased  all  Caroline's  feeling  of  indig- 
nation towards  her  parents,  and  bade  her  rely  still  more  con- 
fidingly on  her  false  friend,  who,  she  taught  herself  to  believe, 
was  almost  the  only  person  who  really  cared  for  her  best  in- 
terests. 

Days  passed,  but  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Hamilton  changed 
in  the  coldness  of  their  manner  towards  their  child.  Perhaps 
such  conduct  added  fire  to  the  already  resentful  girl ;  but 
surely  they  might  be  pardoned  for  acting  as  they  did.  Caro* 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  103 

line's  irritability  increased,  and  Annie's  secret  letters  were 
ever  at  hand  to  soothe  while  they  excited.  She  ever  endeavor- 
ed to  turn  her  friend's  attention  from  what  she  termed  her 
severe  trials  to  the  devotion  felt  towards  her  by  Lord  Alphing- 
lifim,  declaring  that  each  interview  confirmed  more  and  more 
her  belief  in  his  passionate  admiration.  The  evil  influence 
which  Miss  Grahame's  letters  had  upon  the  mind  of  Caroline 
in  her  private  hours,  was  apparent  in  her  manner  to  Lord  Al- 
phinghani,  when  they  chanced  to  meet,  but  even  more  guarded 
than  she  had  hitherto  been,  did  Caroline  become  in  her  beha- 
vior towards  him  when  her  parents  were  present.  Their  con- 
duct had  confirmed,  to  her  heated  and  mistaken  fancy,  Annie's 
representation  of  their  unjustifiable  severity,  and  that,  indig- 
nant at  her  rejection  of  St.  Eval,  they  would  unhesitatingly 
refuse  their  consent  to  her  acceptance  of  the  Viscount.  Caro- 
line thought  not  to  ask  herself,  how  then  is  my  intimacy  with 
him  to  end  ?  She  only  enjoyed  the  present  as  much  as  she 
could,  while  the  coldness  of  her  parents,  amidst  all  her  pride 
and  boasted  stoicism,  still  tortured  her ;  and  to  the  future 
Annie  as  yet  completely  prevented  her  looking.  Miss  Gra- 
hame's plans  appeared  indeed  to  thrive,  and  many  were  the 
confidential  and  triumphant  conversations  she  held  upon  the 
subject  with  Miss.  Malison,  who  became  more  and  more  indig- 
nant at  Mrs.  Hamilton's  intrusive  conduct  in  taking  so  much 
notice  of  Lilla,  notwithstanding  the  tales  industriously  circu- 
lated against  her.  Her  own  severity  and  malevolence,  how- 
ever, appeared  about  to  become  her  foes ;  for  about  this  time  a 
slight  change  with  regard  to  the  happiness  of  her  injured 
pupil  took  place,  which  threatened  to  banish  her  from  Mr. 
Grahame's  family. 

One  morning  Mrs.  Hamilton,  accompanied  by  Ellen,  called 
on  Lady  Helen  rather  earlier  than  usual,  but  found  their  friend 
not  yet  visible,  an  attack  of  indisposition  confining  her  to  her 
couch  later  than  usual,  but  Lady  Helen  sending  to  entreat 
her  friend  not  to  leave  her  house  without  seeing  her,  Mrs. 
Hamilton  determined  on  waiting.  Annie  had  gone  out  with 
Miss  Malison. 

"  No  wonder  our  poor  Lilla  proceeds  so  slowly  in  her  edu- 
cation," remarked  Mrs.  Hamilton,  when  the  footman  gave  her 
this  information.  "  If  she  be  so  much  neglected,  her  father 
has  no  right  to  expect  much  progress.  I  wish  from  my  heart 
that  I  could  think  of  some  plan  that  would  tend  not  only  to 
the  happiness  of  this  poor  girl,  but  in  the  end  to  that  of  her 


104  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

father  also.  Were  those  faults  now  apparent  in  her  charactei 
judiciously  removed.  I  feel  confident  Mr.  Grahame  would  have 
more  comfort  in  her  than  in  either  of  his  other  children." 

'•  She  is  always  very  different  when  she  is  with  us,"  ob- 
served Ellen.  "  I  can  never  discover  those  evil  passions  of 
which  so  many  accuse  her ;  passionate  she  is,  but  that  might 
be  controlled." 

"  It  can  never  be  while  Miss  Malison  remains  with  her,  for 
her  treatment  is  such  that  each  year  but  increases  the  evil." 

A  sound  as  of  some  one  sobbing  violently  in  the  adjoining 
room  interrupted  their  conversation.  Fancyitg  it  came  from 
the  object  of  their  conversation,  Mrs.  Hamilton  opened  the 
folding-doors,  and  discovered  her  young  friend  weeping  vio- 
lently, almost  convulsively,  on  the  sofa.  Ever  alive  to  sorrow, 
of  whatever  nature  or  at  whatever  age,  Mrs.  HamL'ton,  followed 
by  Ellen,  hastened  towards  her. 

"  What  has  happened,  Lilla  ?"  she  said,  soothingly.  ':  What 
has  chanced  to  call  forth  this  violent  grief?  tell  me,  my  love. 
You  know  you  need  not  hesitate  to  trust  me  with  your  sor- 
rows." 

Unused,  save  from  that  one  dear  friend,  to  hear  the  voice 
of  sympathy  and  kindness,  Lilla  flung  her  arms  passionately 
round  her  neck,  and  clung  to  her  for  some  few  minutes  till  her 
choking  sobs  permitted  her  to  speak. 

"  Aunt  Augusta  says  I  am  so  wicked,  so  very  wicked,  that 
mamma  ought  not  to  keep  me  at  home,  that  I  am  not  at  all 
too  old  to  go  to  school,  and  inainnia  says  that  I  shall  go — and 
— and" — 

"  But  what  occasioned  your  aunt  to  advise  such  an  alterna 
tive?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hamilton,  gently. 

"  Oh.  because — because  I  know  I  was  very  wicked,  but  I 
could  not  help  it.  Miss  Malison  had  been  tormenting  me  all 
the  morning,  and  exciting  my  anger;  and  then  Annie  chose  to 
do  all  she  could  to  call  it  forth  before  mamma,  and  so  I  just 
told  her  what  I  thought  of  both  her  and  her  amiable  confidant. 
I  hate  them  both,"  she  continued,  with  a  vehemence  even  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  could  not  restrain,  "and  I  wish 
from  my  heart  I  could  never  see  them  more." 

"  If  you  gave  vent  to  such  sinful  words  before  your  mother," 
replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  gravely.  "I  do  not  wonder  at  your 
aunt's  suggesting  what  she  did.  How  often  have  I  entreated 
jou  to  leave  the  room  when  your  sister  commences  her  unkind 
endeavors  to  excite  your  anger,  and  thus  give  your  mother  a 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  105 

proof  of  your  consideration  for  her  present  state  of  health,  and 
evince  to  your  sister,  that  if  you  cannot  calmly  listen  to  her 
words,  you  can  at  least  avoid  them." 

"Mamma  never  takes  any  notice,  he  wever  much  I  may  endea- 
vor to  please  her  ;  if  she  would  only  caress  me,  and  praise  me 
sometimes,  I  know  I  should  be  a  very  different  girl.  Then  I 
could  bear  all  Annie's  cruel  words  ;  but  I  will  not,  I  will  never 
put  up  with  them,  and  permit  either  her  or  Miss  Malison  to 
govern  me  and  chain  down  my  spirit,  as  they  try  all  they  can 
to  do.  No  one  can  ever  know  the  constant  ill-treatment  which 
I  receive  from  both ;  every  thing  I  do,  every  word  I  speak,  is 
altered  to  suit  their  purpose,  and  mamma  believes  all  they  say. 
They  shall  feel  my  power  one  day  when  they  least  expect  it. 
I  will  not  be  made  so  constantly  miserable  unrevenged." 

"  Lilla,  dear  Lilla,:J  exclaimed  Ellen,  imploringly,  "do  not 
speak  thus  ;  you  do  not  know  what  you  say.  You  wou.d  not 
return  evil  for  evil,  and  on  your  sister.  Do  not,  pray  do  not 
let  your  anger,  however  just,  obtain  so  much  dominion." 

"  Annie  never  treats  me  as  a  sister,  and  I  do  not  see  why  I 
should  practise  such  forbearance  towards  her ;  but  I  will  do  all 
I  can,  indeed  I  will,  if  you  will  persuade  papa  not  to  send  me 
from  home.  Oh,  do  not  look  at  me  so  gravely  and  sadly,  dear- 
est, dearest  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  continued  the  impetuous  and  mis- 
guided but  naturally  right-feeling  child. 

"  I  can  bear  any  one's  displeasure  but  yours  ;  but  when  you 
look  displeased  with  me  I  feel  so  very,  very  wretched.  I  know 
I  deserve  to  lo^e  all  your  kindness,  for  I  never  follow  your 
advice ;  I  deserve  that  you  should  hate  me,  as  every  one  else 
does  ;  but  you  do  not  know  all  I  have  to  endure.  Oh  !  do  not 
let  me  go  from  home." 

"  I  cannot  persuade  your  father  to  let  you  remain  at  home, 
my  dear  girl,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  drawing  her  young  com- 
panion closer  to  her,  and  speaking  with  soothing  tenderness, 
"  because  I  agree  with  your  aunt  in  thinking-it  would  be  really 
the  best  thing  for  you." 

"  Then  I  have  lost  every  hope,"  exclaimed  the  impatient 
girl,  clasping  her  hands  despairingly.  "  Papa  would  never  have 
consented,  if  you  had  advised  him  not,  and  you,  you  must  think 
me  as  wicked  as  aunt  Augusta  does  ;"  and  the  tears  she  had 
checked  now  burst  violently  forth  anew. 

"  You  mistake  me,  iny  love,  quite  mistake  me ;  it  is  not  be- 
cause I  believe  you  are  not  fitted  to  associate  with  your  domestic 
circle  I  believe  if  she  were  but  properly  encouraged," my  little 
5* 


103  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Ldln wouid  add  much  to  the  comfort  of  both  her  parents;  and 
1  do  not  at  ail  despair  of  seeing  that  the  case.  But  at  present 
t  mast  advise  your  leaving  home  for  a  few  years,  because  I 
really  ao  think  it  would  add  much  to  your  happiness." 

'•  Happiness  !''  repeated  Lilla,  in  an  accent  of  extreme 
surprise.  "  School  bring  happiness  ?" 

"  Are  you  happy  at  home,  my  love  1  Is  not  your  life  ac 
present  one  continued  scene  of  wretchedness  ?  What  is  it 
that  you  so  much  dislike  in  the  idea  of  school  ?" 

"  The  control,  the  subordination,  the  irksome  formula  of 
lessons,  prim  governesses,  satirical  scholars."  Neither  Mrs 
Hamilton  nor  Ellen  could  prevent  a  smile. 

"  If  such  things  are  ah  you  dread,  my  dear,  I  have  no  fear 
of  soon  overcoming  them,"  the  former  said,  playfully.  "  I 
will  do  all  I  can  to  persuade  your  father  not  to  send  you  to  a 
large  fashionable  seminary,  where  ssuch  things  may  be  the 
case  ;  but  I  know  a  lady  who  lives  at  Hampstcad,  and  under 
whose  kind  guidance  I  am  sure  you  will  be  happy,  much  more 
so  than  you  are  now.  If  you  would  only  think  calmly  on  the 
subject,  I  am  sure  you  would  agree  in  all  1  urge." 

"  But  no  one  treats  me  as  a  reasonable  person  at  home. 
If  mamma  sends  me  to  school,  it  will  not  be  for  my  happiness, 
but  because  every  body  thinKS  me  so  wicked,  there  is  no 
managing  me  at  home  ;  and  then  in  the  holidays  1  shall  hear 
nothing  but  the  wonderful  improvement  school  discipline  has 
made ;  it  will  be  no  credit  to  my  own  eftorts,  and  so  there  will 
be  no  pleasure  in  making  any." 

"  Will  there  be  no  pleasure  in  making  your  father  happy, 
Lilla  ?  Will  his  approbation  be  nothing  ?" 

"  But  he  never  praises  me  ;  I  am  too  much  afraid  of  him 
to  go  and  caress  him,  as  I  often  wish  to  do,  and  tell  him  if  he 
will  only  call  me  his  dear  Lilla,  I  would  be  good  and  gentle, 
and  learn  all  he  desires.  If  he  would  but  let  me  love  him,  I 
should  be  much  happier  than  I  am." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  thought  so  too  ;  and  deeply  she  regretted 
that  mistaken  sternness  which  had  so  completely  alienated  the 
affections  of  his  child.  Soothingly  she  answered — 

"  But  your  father  dearly  loves  you,  Lilla,  though  perhaps 
vour  violent  conduct  has  of  late  prevented  his  showing  it.  If 
you  were,  for  his  sake,  to  become  gentle  and  amiable,  and 
overcome  your  fears  of  his  sternness,  believe  me,  my  dear 
Lilla,  you  would  be  rendering  him  and  yourself  much  happier. 
You  always  tell  me  you  believe  every  'thing  I  say.  Suppose 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  107 

you  trust  in  my  assertion,  and  try  the  experiment ;  and  it 
you  want  a  second  voice  on  my  side,  I  appeal  to  your  friend 
Ellen  for  her  vote  as  to  the  truth  of  what  I  say." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  spoke  playfully,  and  Ellen  answered  in  the 
same  spirit.  Lilla's  passionate  tears  had  been  checked  by 
the  kind  treatment  she  received,  and  in  a  softened  mood  she 
answered — • 

'•'•  Bat  I  cannot  become  so  while  Miss  Malison  has  any  thing 
to  do  with  me.  I  cannot  bear  her  treatment  gently.  Papa 
does  not  know  all  I  have  to  endure  with  her." 

"  And  therefore  do  I  so  earnestly  wish  you  would  consent  to 
my  persuading  your  father  to  let  you  go  to  Hampstead,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Hamilton,  gently. 

"  But  then  papa  will  not  think  it  is  for  his  sake  I  endea- 
vor to  correct  my  faults  :  he  will  say  it  is  the  school,  and  not 
my  own  efforts  ;  and  if  I  go,  I  shall  never,  never  see  you,  nor 
go  to  dear  Woodlands,  for  I  shall  be  away  while  papa  and 
mamma  are  there ;  away  from  every  body  I  love.  Oh,  that 
would  not  make  me  happy  !"  and  clinging  to  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
the  really  affectionate  girl  again  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  am  I  to  urge  in  reply  to  these  very  weighty  objec- 
tions, my  dear  Lilla  ?"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton.  "  In  the  first 
place,  your  father  shall  know  that  every  conquest  you  make  is 
for  his  sake  :  he  shall  not  think  you  were  forced  to  submission. 
In  the  next,  compulsion  is  not  in  my  friend's  system.  And  as 
I  am  very  intimate  with  Mrs.  Douglas.  I  shall  very  often  come 
and  see  jou  when  I  am  in  to\vn,  your  midsummer  holidays 
will  also  occur  during  that  time  ;  and,  lastly,  if  your  papa  and 
mamma  will  consent,  you  shall  see  Woodlands  every  year ;  for 
1  shall  ask  Mr.  Grahame  to  bring  you  with  him  in  his  annual 
Christmas  visit  to  his  estate,  and  petition  that  he  will  leave 
you  behind  him  to  spend  the  whole  of  your  winter  vacation 
with  me  and  Ellen  at  Oakwood.  Now,  are  all  objections 
waived,  or  has  my  very  determined  opponent  anymore  to  bring 
forward  ?" 

Lilla  did  not  answer,  but  she  raised  her  head  from  her  kind 
friend's  shoulder,  and  pushing  back  the  disordered  locks  of 
her  bright  hair,  looked  up  in  her  face  as  if  no  more  sorrow 
could  be  her  portion. 

'•  Oh,  I  would  remain  at  school  a-whole  year  together,  if  I 
might  spend  my  vacation  at  Oakwood  with  you,  and  Ellen,  and  , 
Emmeline.  and  all !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  glee  as  wild  and 
childish  as  all  her  former  emotion  had  been.      Lady  Helen  at 


108  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

that  instant  entered,  and  after  languidly  greeting  Mrs.  K-a\«iil 
ton  and  Ellen,  exclaimed — 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Lilla,  go  away  !  your  appearance  ia 
enough  to  frigliten  any  one.  I  should  be  absolutely  asnamccl 
of  you,  if  any  friend  were  to  come  in  unexpectedly.  Perhaps 
you  may  choose  to  obey  me  now  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  is  pre- 
sent ;  she  little  knows  what  a  trouble  you  are  at  home,"  she 
continued,  languidly. 

The  flush  of  passion  again  mounted  to  Lilla's  cheek,  but 
Ellen,  taking  her  arm,  entreated  to  go  with  her,  and  they  left 
the  room  together,  while  Lady  Helen  amused  her  friund  by  a 
long  account  of  her  domestic  misfortunes,  the  insolence  of  her 
upper  domestics,  the  heedlessness  of  her  elder,  and  the  fearful 
passions  of  her  younger  daughter,  even  the  carelessness  of  her 
husband's  manner  towards  her,  notwithstanding  her  evidently 
declining  health,  all  these  and  similar  sorrows  were  poured 
into  the  sympathizing  ear  of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  giving  clearer 
and  clearer  evidence  of  Lady  Helen's  extreme  and  increasing 
weakness  of  mind  and  character. 

Groat,  indeed,  was  the  astonishment  of  this  indolent  mother 
•when  Mrs.  Hamilton  urged  the  necessity  of  sending  Lilla  to 
school.  Without  accusing  Miss  Malison  of  any  want  of  judg- 
ment, she  was  yet  enabled  to  work  on  Lady  Augusta  Denharu's 
•words,  and  prove  the  good  effects  that  a  removal  from  home 
for  a  few  years  might  produce  on  Lilla's  character. 

Lady  Augusta's  advice  had  been  merely  remembered  dur- 
ing that  lady's  presence,  but  seconded  as  it  now  was  by  the 
earnest  pleadings  of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  she  determined  on  rous- 
ing herself  sufficiently  to  put  it  in  force,  if  her  husband  con- 
sented ;  but  to  obtain  his  approbation  was  a  task  too  terrible 
for  her  nerves,  and  she  entreated  Mrs.  Hamilton  to  speak  with 
him  on  the  subject.  Willingly  she  consented,  only  requesting 
that  Lady  Helen  would  not  mention  her  intentions  either  to 
Annie  or  Miss  Malison  till  her  husband  had  been  consulted, 
and  to  this  Lady  Helen  willingly  consented,  for  in  secret  she 
dreaded  Miss  Malison's  lamentations  and  reproaches,  when  this 
arrangement  should  be  known. 

When  Mr.  Grahame,  in  compliance  with  Mrs.  Hamilton's 
message,  called  on  her  the  following  morning,  and  heard  the 
cause  of  his  summons,  his  surprise  almost  equalled  that  of  his 
wife.  He  knew  her  dislike  to  the  plan  of  sending  girls  to 
School,  however  it  might  be  in  vogue ;  and  almost  in  terror  ho 
asked  if  she  proposed  this  scheme  because  the  evil  character 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  109 

of  his  child  required  some  such  desperate  expedient.  It  was 
easy  to  prove  to  him  such  was  very  far  from  her  meaning. 
She  spoke  more  openly  on  the  character  of  Lilla  than  she  had 
yet  done,  for  she  thought  their  long  years  of  intimacy  demand- 
ed candor  on  her  part ;  and  each  year,  while  it  increased  the 
evil  of  Lilla's  present  situation,  heightened  her  earnest  desire 
to  draw  the  father  and  child  more  closely  together.  She  did 
nut  palliate  her  faults,  but  she  proved  that  they  were  increased 
by  the  constant  contradiction  and  irritation  which  she  had  to 
encounter.  She  repeated  all  that  had  passed  between  them 
the  preceding  day.  unconsciously  and  cautiously  condemning 
Grahame's  excessive  sternness,  by  relating,  almost  verbatim, 
Lillys  simply  expressed  wish  that  her  father  would  let  her 
love  him. 

She  gained  her  point.  The  softened  and  agitated  father 
f  jit  self-condemned  as  she  proceeded  ;  and  earnestly  implored 
her  to  give  him  one  more  proof  of  her  friendship,  by  recom- 
mending him  some  lady  under  whose  care  he  could  with  safety 
place  his  erring,  yet  naturally  noble-minded  and  warm-hearted 
child.  A  fashionable  seminary,  he  was  sure,  would  do  her 
more  harm  than  good,  and  he  listened  with  eagerness  to  Mrs. 
Hamilton's  description  of  Mrs.  Douglas.  The  widow  of  a 
naval  officer,  who  had  for  several  years  been  in  the  habit  of 
educating  ten  young  ladies  of  the  highest  rank,  and  she  men- 
tioned one  or  two  who  had  been  her  pupils,  whose  worth  and 
mental  endowments  were  well  known  to  Grahame. 

'•  Do  not  be  guided  entirely  by  me  on  a  subject  so  impor- 
tant." she  said,  after  recalling  those  families  to  his  mind, 
whose  daughters  had  been  placed  there ;  "  make  inquiries  of 
all  who  know  Mrs.  Douglas,  and  see  her  yourself  before  you 
quite  decide.  That  I  have  a  very  high  opinion  of  her  is  cer- 
tain ;  but  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  were  to  place  Lilla  with  her 
upon  my  advice  alone,  when,  in  all  probability,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile,  "you  will  find  all  Lady  Helen's  family  opposed 
to  the  arrangement." 

11  As  they  have  never  guided  me  right  when  they  have  in- 
terfered with  my  children,  their  approbation  or  disapproval 
will  have  little  weight  in  my  determination."  answered  Gra- 
hame. '•  You  have  awakened  me  to  a  sense  of  my  duty,  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  for  which  I  cannot  sufficiently  express  my  gratitude. 
With  too  much  reliance  upon  the  opinions  of  others  I  have 
regarded  the  many  tales  brought  against  my  poor  child,  and 
now  I  see  how  greatly  her  faults  have  been  occasioned  by  mis 


110  TIIE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

taken  treatment.  I  thought  once  I  could  never  have  parted 
with  a  daughter  for  school,  but  I  now  see  it  will  bo  a  kindness 
to  do  so ;  and  pain  me  as  it  will,  now  I  know  that  I  may  in 
time  win  her  affections,  your  advice  shall  be  followed." 

"  You  must  consent  to  part  with  her  for  one  vacation  also," 
replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  playfully.  "  I  have  promised,  in  an- 
swer to  her  weighty  objection  that  she  shall  never  see  Wood- 
lands again,  to  persuade  you  to  let  her  spend  Christmas  at 
Oakwood.  You  must  consent,  or  I  shall  teach  Li 'la  a  lesson 
of  rebellion,  and  carry  her  off  from  Mrs.  Douglas  by  force." 

"  Willingly,  gratefully,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Grahame. 

"  And  you  will  promise  me  to  permit  her  to  love  you,  to 
use  her  own  simple  affectionate  words  before  she  leaves  you  ; 
you  will  not  terrify  her  by  the  cold  sternness  you  frequently 
manifest  towards  her,  and  prove  that  you  take  sufficient  interest 
in  her.  to  love  her  more  for  every  conquest  she  makes." 

"  Faithfully,  faithfully  I  promise,  my  kind  friend." 

"Then  I  am  satisfied,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  her  counte- 
nance glowing  with  benevolent  pleasure.  '•  I  shall.  I  trust, 
one  day  succeed  in  making  my  little  Lilla  happy,  and  thus  add 
to  the  comfort  of  her  parents.  We  are  old  friends.  Mr. 
Grahame,"  she  added,  "  and  therefore  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
express  the  pleasure  you  have  given  me  by  thus  promising  to 
think  upon  my  advice.  •  I  began  to  fear  that  you  would  be 
displeased  at  my  interference,  deeming  my  advice  impertinent 
and  needless.  I  have  endeavored  to  impress  upon  Lilla  the 
necessity  of  a  temporary  absence  from  home,  and  have  in  part 
succeeded ;  and  having  Lady  Helen's  sanction  to  speak  with 
you,  I  could  hesitate  no  longer." 

"  Nor  do  I  hesitate  one  moment  to  act  upon  your  disin- 
terested advice,  my  dear  friend.  Your  word  is  enough  ;  but  as 
you  so  earnestly  wish  it,  I  will  this  very  hour  seek  those  of  my 
friends  who  are  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Douglas.  I  must  leave 
Lilla  to  express  her  gratitude  for  her  father  and  herself." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  soon  placed  at  rest  regarding  the  desti- 
nation of  her  young  friend.  There  was  not  a  dissenting  voice 
as  to  Mrs.  Douglas's  worth,  one  general  opinion  of  satisfaction 
prevailed  ;  but  the  most  gratifying  tribute  Grahame  felt,  was 
the  affection  and  esteem  which  her  former  pupils  still  fondly 
encouraged  towards  her.  Thus  prepossessed,  her  appearance 
and  manners  did  much  to  strengthen  his  resolve,  and  Grahame 
now  felt  armed  for  all  encounters  with  those  who,  presuming 
on  their  near  relationship  to  his  wife,  would  bring  forward 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  Ill 

numberless  objections  to  bis  plan  ;  but  he  was  agreeably  mis- 
taken.  Lilla  was  looked  upon  by  them  all  as  such  an  evil- 
minded,  ill-informed  girl,  that  it  signified  little  where  she  was 
placed,  as  she  generally  brought  discredit  on  all  who  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  her.  Miss  Malison,  however,  excited  their 
sympathy,  and  Annie  declared  it  was  a  shameful  and  dishonora- 
ble thing  to  dismiss  her  without  notice,  after  so  many  years  of 
devoted  service  to  their  family.  Poor  Lady  Helen  had  to  en- 
counter the  storm  of  upbraiding  from  her  daughter,  and  the 
tears  and  sobs  of  the  governess,  at  the  ill-trcatmeut  she  re- 
ceived. In  vain  Lady  Helen  accepted  her  protestations  that 
she  had  done  her  duty ;  that  she  was  sure  all  that  could  be 
done  for  Miss  Lilla  had  been  done.  Annie  declared  that, 
though  her  services  were  no  longer  required  for  htr  ungrateful 
sister,  she  could  not  do  without  Miss  Malison,  for  her  mother's 
health  seldom  permitted  her  to  walk  or  drive  out.  She  should 
absolutely  die  of  ennui  without  some  one  to  act  in  those  cases 
as  her  chaperon.  In  this  she  was  ably  seconded  by  all  her 
mother's  family,  whose  protcgg  Miss  Malison  had  long  been, 
and  against  his  better  judgment,  Grahame  at  length  consented 
that  Miss  Malison  should  remain  in  his  family  till  she  should 
pet  another  situation  as  finishing  governess.  This,  of  course, 
Miss  Grahame  had  determined  should  not  be  for  some  little 
time. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  had  been  particularly  cautious,  in  her  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Grahame,  not  to  speak  any  word  for  or  against 
Mi-ss  Malison  ;  perhaps  had  she  said  what  she  really  thought, 
even  tLis  concession  would  not  have  been  made. 

Mr.  Grahame's  fixed  and  sudden  determination  to  send 
Lilla  to  school  was.  of  course,  laid  by  Annie  and  her  confidant 
to  Mrs.  Hamilton's  charge,  and  increased  not  a  little  their 
prejudice  against  her.  adding  fresh  incentive  to  their  schemes 
for  the  destruction  of  her  peace,  which  Caroline's  self-willed 
conduct  now  rendered  even  more  easy  than  it  had  previously 
been. 

When  all  was  arranged,  when  it  was  decidedly  settled  that 
Lilla  should  join  Mrs.  Douglas's  establishment  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  midsummer  vacation,  her  father  quietly  entered  the 
study  where  she  was  alone,  to  give  her  this  information,  and 
his  really  fond  heart  could  not  gaze  on  her  without  admiration. 
She  was  now  nearly  fifteen,  though  in  looks,  manners,  and  con- 
versation, from  being  kept  under  such  continual  restraint,  sho 
always  appeared  at  first  sight  very  much  younger.  Childliko 


112  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

in  every  movement,  even  her  impetuosity  might  have  aided 
the  deception  ;  and  Lady  Helen  herself  had  so  often  indolently 
answered  questions  concerning  her  daughter's  age,  she  believed 
she  was  about  twelve  or  thirteen,  that  at  length  she  really  be- 
lieved it  was  so.  It  was  Annie  and  Miss  Malison's  interest 
to  preserve  this  illusion ;  for  were  she  recognized  as  fifteen, 
many  privileges  might  have  been  acceded  to  her,  very  much 
at  variance  with  their  interest.  Annie  had  no  desire  for  a 
rival  to  present  herself,  which,  had  her  sister  appeared  in  pub 
lie,  would  undoubtedly  have  been  the  case ;  Lilla  gave  pro- 
mise of  beauty,  which,  though  not  perhaps  really  so  perfect  as 
Annie's,  would  certainly  have  attracted  fully  as  much  notice. 
She  was  drawing  a  tiny  wreath  of  brilliant  flowers  on  a  small 
portfolio,  which  she  was  regarding  with  a  complacency  that 
added  brilliancy  to  her  animated  features.  At  her  father's 
well-known  step  she  looked  up  in  some  little  terror,  and  rose, 
as  was  her  custom  whenever  she  first  saw  him  in  the  morning; 
her  fear  could  not  check  the  sparkling  lustre  of  her  eye,  and 
Graharne,  taking  her  hand,  said  kindly — 

"  I  have  some  news  for  my  little  girl,  which  I  trust  will 
prove  as  agreeable  as  I  have  every  reason  to  hope  they  may. 
Mrs.  Douglass  will  gladly  consent  to  receive  my  Lilla  as  an 
inmate  of  her  happy  family." 

The  flush  of  animation,  the  sparkling  lustre  of  her  eye 
faded  on  the  instant,  and  she  turned  away. 

kt  Why.  our  kind  friend,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  bade  me  hope  this 
would  be  pleasing  intelligence ;  has  she  deceived  me,  love  T' 
continued  her  father,  drawing  her  with  such  unwonted  tender- 
ness to  him,  that,  after  a  glance  of  bewilderment,  she  flung 
her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  wept 
passionately  on  her  father's  shoulder. 

"  Can  it  be  pleasure  to  hear  I  am  to  go  from  you  and  mam 
ma  ?"  she  exclaimed,  clinging  to  him  with  all  the  passionate 
warmth  of  her  nature,  and  forgetting  all  her  terror  in  that  one 
moment  of  uncontrolled  feeling.  Her  simple  words  confirmed 
at  once  all  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  said  in  her  favor,  and  the 
now  gratified  father  seated  her,  as  he  would  a  little  child,  on 
his  knee,  and  with  affectionate  caresses  gradually  soothed  her 
to  composure.  Long  did  they  converse  together,  and  from  that 
moment  Lilla's  happiness  commenced.  She  could  not  at 
once  lose  her  dread  of  her  father's  sternness,  but  the  slightest 
hint  from  him  was  enough  ;  and  frequently,  as  Graliatne  felt 
toer  affectionate  manner,  would  he  wonder  he  had  been  blind 


THE  -MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  113 

to  her  character  so  long.  The  idea  of  school  lost  its  repug« 
nance.  Her  father's  kindness  enabled  her  to  keep  her  deter- 
mination, to  prove,  by  the  indulgence  of  the  highest  spirits, 
that  going  to  school,  instead  of  being  a  punishment,  as  her 
aunt  Augusta  intended  it  to  be.  was  a  privilege  and  a  pleasure. 
That  she  was  accused  of  want  of  feeling  she  little  heeded,  now 
that  her  father  invited  and  encouraged  her  affection.  Lady 
Helen  wondered  at  her  change  of  manner,  but  indolence  and 
prejudice  constantly  instilled  by  Annie  and  Miss  Malison,  pre- 
vented all  indulgence  of  more  kindly  feelings.  As  things 
remained  in  this  state  for  some  weeks  in  Mr.  Grahame's  estab- 
lishment, we  will  now  return  to  Mr.  Hamilton's  family. 

It  was  about  this  time,  some  three  or  four  weeks  before  the 
end  of  the  Oxford  term,  that  letters  arrived  from  Percy  and 
Herbert,  containing  matters  of  interesting  information,  and 
others  which  caused  some  anxiety  in  the  breasts  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hamilton.  On  the  first  subject  both  the  brothers  wrote, 
so  deeply  interested  had  they  become  in  it.  Among  the  ser- 
vitors or  free  scholars  of  their  college  was  a  young  man,  whom 
they  had  frequently  noticed  the  last  year,  but  never  recollected 
having  seen  before.  He  shrunk,  as  it  appeared,  in  sensitive- 
ness from  every  eye,  kept  aloof  from  all  companions,  as  if  he 
felt  himself  above  those  who  held  the  same  rank  in  the  Uni- 
versity. Herbert's  gentle  and  quickly  sympathizing  heart  had 
ever  felt  pained,  when  he  first  went  to  college,  to  see  the  broad 
distinction  made  between  the  servitors  and  ither  collegians. 
He  felt  it  pain  to  see  them,  as.  in  their  plain  gowns  and  caps, 
they  stood  or  sat  apart  from  their  brother  students  at  their 
meals,  but  perceived  by  degrees  they  were  all  happy  in  their 
rank,  being,  in  general,  sons  of  the  poorer  and  less  elevated 
classes  of  society,  happy  to  obtain  an  excellent  education  free 
of  expense,  he  had  conquered  these  feelings,  and  imagined 
justly  that  they  were  in  all  probability,  indifferent  to  the  dis- 
tinction of  rank.  But  one  amongst  them  had  recalled  all  these 
kindly  sentiments,  not  only  in  the  heart  of  Herbert  but  in 
that  of  Percy,  who  was  in  general  too  reckless  to  regard  mat- 
ters so  minutely  as  his  brother.  The  subject  of  their  notice 
was  a  young  man,  perhaps  some  two  or  three  years  older  than 
the  heir  of  Oakwood,  but  with  an  expression  of  melancholy, 
which  frequently  amounted  almost  to  anguish,  ever  stamped 
on'his  high  and  thoughtful  brow,  and  his  large,  searching,  dark 
gray  eye.  He  was  pale,  but  it  appeared  more  from  mental 
Buffering  than  disease,  and  at  times  there  was  a  proud  even  a 


114  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSK. 

haughty  curl  on  his  lip,  that  might  have  whispered  he  had  seeii 
better  days.  He  was  never  observed  to  be  familiar  with  his 
brother  servitors,  and  shrunk  with  proud  humility  from  the 
notice  of  his  superiors.  The  servile  offices  exacted  from  those 
of  his  degree  were  performed  with  scrupulous  exactness,  but 
Herbert  frequently  beheld  at  such  times  a  flush  of  suffering 
mount  into  his  cheek,  and  when  his  task  was  done,  he  would 
fold  his  arms  in  his  gown,  and  drop  his  head  upon  them,  as  if 
his  spirit  revolted  in  agony  from  its  employment.  The  other 
servitors  were  fond  of  aping  their  superiors,  by  a  studied  affec- 
tation of  similar  dress  and  manner,  but  this  young  man  was 
never  once  seen  to  alter  his  plain  even  coarse  costume,  and 
kept  aloof  from  all  appearance  that  would  assimilate  him  with 
those  above  him  ;  and. yet  he  was  their  laughing-stock,  the  butt 
against  which  the  pointed  arrows  of  scorn,  contumely,  ridicule^ 
and  censure  were  ever  hurled,  with'  a  malevolence  that  appear- 
ed strange  to  the  benevolent  hearts  of  the  young  Hamilton^, 
who  vainly  endeavored  to  check  the  public  torrent.  "  He  wan 
not  always  as  he  is  now,  and  then,  poor  Welshman  as  he  is.  ho 
always  lorded  it  over  us.  and  we  will  requite  him  now."  was 
the  only  reply  they  obtained ;  but  the  first  sentence  touched 
a  chord  in  Herbert's  heart.  Misfortune  might  have  reduced 
him  to  the  rank  he  now  held,  and  perhaps  he  struggled  vainly 
to  teach  his  spirit  submission  ;  but  how  could  he  obtain  his 
friendship,  in  what  manner  succeed  in  introducing  himself. 
Herbert  was  naturally  too  reserved  to  make  advances,  however 
inclination  prompted,  and  some  months  passed  in  inactivity, 
though  the  wish  to  know  him,  and  by  kindness  remove  his  de- 
spondency, became  more  and  more  powerful  to  the  brothers. 

A  side  attack  one  day  on  the  young  Welshman,  made  with 
onwonted  and  bitter  sarcasm  by  an  effeminate  and  luxurious 
scion  of  nobility,  roused  the  indignation  of  Percy.  Retorting 
haughtily  on  the  defensive,  a  regular  war  of  tongues  took  place. 
The  masterly  eloquence  of  Percy  carried  the  day,  and  he  hoped 
young  Myrvin  was  free  from  all  farther  attacks  He  was  mis- 
taken :  another  party,  headed  by  the  defeated  but  enraged 
Lord,  who  had  been  roused  to  a  state  of  fury  by  young  Hamil- 
ton's appearance,  surrounded  the  unhappy  young  man  in  the 
college  court,  and  preventing  all  egress,  heaped  every  sarcastic 
insult  upon  him,  words  that  could  not  fail  to  sting  his  haughty 
spirit  to  the  quick.  Myrvin's  eye  flashed  with  sudden  and  un- 
wonted lustre,  and  ere  Herbert,  who  with  his  brother  had 
hastily  joined  the  throng,  could  prevent  it,  he  had  raised  hi.« 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  115 

arm  and  felled  his  insulting  opponent  to  the  ground.  A  wild 
uproar  ensued,  the  civil  officers  appeared,  and  young  Myrvin 
•was  committed,  under  the  charge  of  wilfully,  and  without  pro- 
vocation, attacking  the  person  of  the  right  honorable  Marquis 

The  indignation  of  Percy  and  Herbert  was  now  at  its 
height ;  and  without  hesitation  the  former  sought  the  principal 
of  his  college,  and  in  a  few  brief  but  emphatic  sentences, 
placed  the  whole  affair  before  him  in  its  true  light,  condemn- 
ing with  much  feeling  the  cowardly  and  cruel  conduct  ot  the 
true  aggressors,  and  so  convinced  the  worthy  man  of  the  injus- 
tice done  towards  the  person  of  young  Myrvin,  that  he  was 
instantly  released,  with  every  honor  that  could  soothe  his 
troubled  feelings,  and  a  severe  reprimand  bestowed  on  the  real 
authors  of  the  affray. 

Percy  pursued  his  advantage  ;  the  noble  heart  of  the  young 
"Welshman  was  touched  by  this  generous  interference  in  his 
behalf,  and  when  the  brothers  followed  him  in  his  solitary  walk 
the  following  day,  he  resisted  them  not.  Gratefully  he  ac- 
knowledged the  debt  he  owed  them,  confessed  he  would  rather 
have  received  such  a  benefit  from  them  than  from  any  others 
in  the  college,  and  at  length,  unable  to  resist  the  frankly  prof- 
fered friendship  of  Percy,  the  silent  entreaty  of  Herbert,  he 
grasped  with  convulsive  pressure  their  offered  hands,  and  pro- 
mised faithfully  he  would  avoid  them  no  more.  From  that 
hour  the  weight  of  his  reverses  was  less  difficult  to  bear.  In 
the  society,  the  conversation  of  Herbert,  he  forgot  his  cares ; 
inr.  ate  nobleness  was  visible  in  Myrvin's  every  thought,  act, 
and  word,  and  he  became  dear  indeed  to  the  soul  of  Herbert 
Hamilton,  even  as  a  brother  he  loved  him.  Warm,  equally 
warm  perhaps,  was  the  mutual  regard  of  Myrvin  and  Percy, 
though  the  latter  was  not  formed  for  such  deep  unchanging  emo- 
tion evinced  in  the  character  of  his  brother.  But  it  was  not  un- 
til some  time  after  the  commencement  of  their  friendship  that 
Herbert  could  elicit  from  his  companion  the  history  of  his 
former  life. 

It  was  simply  this  : — Arthur  Myrvin  was  the  only  child  of 
the  rector  of  Llangwillan,  a  small  village  in  Wales,  about  ten 
or  twelve  miles  from  Swansea.  The  living  was  not  a  rich  one, 
but  its  emoluments  enabled  Mr.  Myrvin  to  live  in  comparative 
affluence  and  comfort;  beloved,  revered  by  his  parishioners, 
enabled  to  do  good,  to  bestow  happiness,  to  impart  the  know- 
ledge of  the  Christian  faith,  he  beheld  his  flock  indeed  walking 


116  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

in  the  paths  of  their  Heavenly  Shepherd.  He  had  been 
enabled  by  the  economy  of  years  to  save  sufficient  to  place  hia 
son  respectably  and  comfortably  at  college,  and  it  was  with  no 
little  pride  he  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  those  savings 
would  be  used  for  their  long-destined  purpose.  Ai'thur  had 
grown  beneath  his  eye  ;  he  had  never  left  his  father's  roof,  and 
Mr.  Myrvin  trusted  had  imbibed  principles  that  would  preserve 
him  from  the  temptations  of  college  life;  and  so  strong  was 
this  hope,  that  he  parted  from  his  son  without  one  throb  of 
fear. 

The  sudden  change  of  his  life  was,  however,  too  tempting 
an  ordeal  for  the  young  man.  He  associated  with  those  above 
him  both  in  rank  and  fortune,  who  leading  him  iiito  their  ex- 
travagant follies,  quickly  dissipated  his  allowance,  which,  though 
ample,  permitted  not  extravagance.  About  this  time  the  noble 
proprietor  of  the  Llangwillan  parish  died,  and  its  patronage 
fell  to  the  disposal  of  a  gay  and  dissipated  young  man,  who 
succeeded  to  the  large  estates.  Inordinately  selfish,  surround- 
ed by  ready  flatterers,  eager  of  gain,  he  was  a  complete  tyrant 
in  his  domains. 

The  excessive  beauty  and  fertility  of  Llangwillan,  the  in- 
dustry and  simple  habits  of  the  inhabitants,  excited  the  desire 
of  possessing  it  in  the  mind  of  one  of  these  humble  syco- 
phants, and  his  point  was  very  speedily  gained.  Justice  and 
humanity  were  alike  banished  from  the  code  of  laws  now  in 
action,  and,  without  preparation  or  excuse,  Mr.  Myrvin  was 
desired  to  quit  that  parish  which  had  been  his  so  long.  His 
incumbency  expired  with  the  death  of  the  proprietor,  and  it 
had  been  already  disposed  of.  The  grief  of  the  old  man  and 
his  humble  friends  was  long  and  deep  ;  it  was  not  openly  dis- 
played, the  lessons  of  their  beloved  pastor  had  too  well  in- 
structed them  in  the  duty  of  resignation  ;  but  aged  cheeks 
were  wet  with  unwonted  tears,  and  mingled  with  the  sobs  of 
childhood.  Men,  women,  youth,  and  little  children  alike 
wept,  when  their  pastor  departed  from  the  village.  He  who 
had  been  the  shepherd  of  his  flock  so  long,  was  now  cast  aside 
as  a  worthless  thing,  and  the  old  man's  heart  was  well  nigh 
broken.  In  a  rude  cot,  forced  on  his  acceptance  by  a  wealthy 
parishioner,  situated  some  eight  or  ten  miles  from  the  scene  of 
his  happiness,  he  took  up  his  abode,  and  to  him  would  the  vil- 
lagers still  throng  each  Sabbath,  as  formerly  to  the  humble 
church,  and  old  Myrvin,  in  the  midst  of  his  own  misfortunes, 
found  time  to  pray  for  that  misguided  and  evil-directed  man 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  117 

who  had  succeeded  him  to  his  ministry,  and  brought  down 
shame  on  his  profession,  and  utterly  destroyed  the  peace  which 
which  Llangwillan  had  enjoyed  so  long. 

Resignation  by  degrees  spread  over  Myrvin's  mind,  but  the 
conduct  of  his  son  caused  him  fresh  anxiety.  The  news  of  the 
change  in  his  father's  life  awakened  Arthur  from  his  lethargy  ; 
he  saw  the  folly,  the  imprudence  of  which  he  had  been  guilty; 
his  father  could  no  longer  support  him  at  college.  In  three 
years  he  had  squandered  away  that  which,  with  economy,  would 
nave  served  as  maintenance  for  ten,  and  now  he  must  leave 
the  college,  or  do  that  from  which  at  first  his  very  soul  revolt- 
ed ;  but  the  image  of  his  father,  his  injured  father,  rose  before 
him.  He  could  not  inflict  upon  him  a  disappointment  so  se- 
vere as  his  departure  from  college  would  be.  He  would  yet 
atone  for  his  folly,  and  fulfil  his  father's  long-cherished  hopes, 
and  without  consulting  him.  in  a  moment  of  desperation,  he 
sought  the  resident  head  of  the  University,  and  imparted  his 
wishes.  The  preliminaries  were  quickly  settled,  and  the  next 
letter  from  Oxford  which  Mr.  Myrvin  received,  contained  the 
intelligence  that  his  son  had  reconciled  his  mind  to  the  change, 
and  become  a  servitor. 

A  glow  of  thanksgiving  suffused  the  old  man's  heart,  but  ha 
knew  all  the  inward  and  outward  trials  with  which  his  son  had 
to  contend.  Had  he  at  the  first  joined  the  college  in  the  rank 
which  he  now  held,  he  might  not  have  felt  the  change  so  keenly  ; 
but  as  it  was,  the  pride  and  haughtiness  which  had  character- 
ised him  before,  were  now.  as  we  have  seen,  returned  tenfold 
upon  himself.  He  clothed  himself  outwardly  in  an  invulnera- 
ble armor  of  self-control  and  cold  reserve,  but  inwardly  his 
blood  was  in  one  continued  fever,  until  the  friendship  of  Percy 
and  Herbert  soothed  his  troubled  feelings.  The  name  of  Ham- 
ilton, Herbert  continued  to  state,  for  it  was  he  who  wrote  par- 
ticularly of  Arthur,  the  young  man  had  declared  he  knew  well; 
but  where  he  had  heard  it,  or  how,  appeared  like  a  dream.  He 
thought  he  had  even  seen  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  once  not 
very  man}'  years  ago ;  but  so  many  changes  in  his  life  had 
occurred  since  then,  that  the  particulars  of  that  meeting  he 
could  not  remember.  '•  Myrvin  and  Llangwillan  appear  equally 
familiar  to  me,"  wrote  Herbert ;  '•  but  even  more  than  to  Arthur 
they  seem  as  the  remembrances  of  an  indistinct  dream.  It  has 
sometimes  occurred  to  me  that  they  are  combined  with  the 
recollection  of  my  aunt  Mrs.  Fortescue.  and  Arthur,  to  whom  I 
mentioned  her  death,  suddenly  recalled  a  dying  lady  and  two 


118  THU  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

children,  in  •whom  his  father  was  very  much  interested.  For 
tescue  he  does  not  well  remember,  but  the  little  girl's  name  was 
Ellen,  a  pale,  dark-eyed  and  dark-haired,  melancholy  child, 
whom  he  used  to  call  his  wife,  and  my  cousin  certainly  answers 
this  description.  If  it  be  indeed  f»he  same,  it  is  strange  we 
should  thus  come  together ;  and,  oh  !  my  dearest  father,  the 
benefit  our  family  received  from  this  venerable  and  injured 
man,  bids  me  long  more  intently  that  we  could  do  something 
for  him,  and  that  Arthur  should  be  restored  to  his  former 
position.  He  is  of  full  age,  and  quite  capable  of  taking  orders, 
and  I  have  often  thought,  could  he  reside  with  Mr.  Howard 
the  year  previous  to  his  ordination,  it  would  tend  much  move 
to  his  happiness  and  welfare  than  remaining  here,  even  if  he  was 
released  from  that  grade,  the  oppression  of  which  now  hangs  so 
heavily  upon  him.  Follies  have  been  his,  but  they  have  been 
nobly  repented ;  and  something  within  me  whispers  that  the 
knowledge  he  is  my  dearest  and  most  intimate  friend,  that  we 
mutually  feel  we  are  are  of  service  to  each  other,  will  plead  his 
cause  and  my  request  to  my  kind  and  indulgent  father,  with 
even  more  force  than  the  mere  relation  of  facts,  interesting 
as  that  alone  would  be." 

He  was  right.  The  friend,  the  chosen  and  most  intimate 
friend  of  their  younger  son  would  ever  have  been  an  object  of 
interest  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton.  That  he  was  the  son  of 
the  same  good  man  who  had  acted  so  benevolently  towards 
Eleanor  and  her  orphan  children,  who  had  soothed  her  dying 
bed,  and  reconciled  the  parting  sinner  to  her  Maker,  added 
weight  tf  the  simple  yet  pathetic  eloquence  with  which  Her- 
bert had  related  his  story.  The  injury  he  had  sustained  excited 
their  just  indignation,  and  if  the  benevolence  of  their  kind 
hearts  had  required  fresh  incentives,  the  unfeigned  grief  of 
Ellen,  as  the  tale  of  the  old  man  was  related  to  her,  would  have 
given  it. 

';  Oh,  that  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  offer  a  sufficient  sum  to 
tempt  the  sordid  and  selfish  being  in  whose  possession  Llang- 
willan  now  is,"  she  was  heard  one  day  to  exclaim,  when  slio 
imagined  herself  alone,  "that  I  might  but  restore  it  to  Mr. 
Myrvin  ;  that  I  might  feel  that  good  old  man  was  passing  his 
latter  years  in  the  spot  and  amongst  all  those  he  so  much 
loved  ;  that  Arthur  could  break  the  chain  that  now  so  bitterly 
and  painfully  distresses  him.  Dear,  dear  Mr.  Myrvin,  oh,  how 
little  did  I  imagine,  when  my  thoughts  have  wandered  to  you 
and  Arthur,  who  was  such  a  dear  consoling  friend  in  my  child- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  119 

ish  sorrow,  that  misery  such  as  this  had  been  your  portion  ; 
and  I  can  do  nothing,  nothing  to  prove  how  often  I  have 
thought  of  and  loved  you  both — and  my  dear  mother's  grave, 
in  the  midst  of  strangers."  And  she  wept  bitterly,  little  ima- 
gining her  soliloquy  had  been  overheard  by  her  aunt  and  uncle, 
who  were  almost  surprised  at  her  vivid  remembrance  of  those 
whom  for  the  last  seven  years  she  had  scarcely  seen,  and  of 
whom  she  so  seldom  heard ;  but  it  heightened  their  desire  to 
be  of  service  to  him  who  had  once  been  so  kind  a  friend  to  their 
family. 

The  contents  of  Percy's  letter,  to  the  rather  alarming  and 
mysterious  nature  of  which  we  have  already  alluded,  will  be 
found  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  MALISOX,  dear  Malison,  congratulate  me  :  the  game  is  in  my 
own  hands  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Grahame  one  morning  as  she  en- 
tered the  private  room  of  her  confidant,  about  a  week  after  the 
receipt  of  the  letters  we  have  mentioned,  with  every  feature 
expressing  triumphant  yet  malignant  glee. 

"  That  has  been  the  case  some  weeks,  has  it  not?"  replied 
Miss  Malison. 

11  Yes  ;  but  not  so  completely  as  at  present.  Caroline  has 
just  left  me ;  she  was  afraid  of  imparting  in  writing  the  im- 
portant intelligence  she  had  to  give  me,  important  indeed,  for 
it  saves  me  a  world  of  trouble  ;  though  did  I  allow  myself  to 
think  on  her  present  condition  of  suffering.  I  believe  that  I 
should  repent  her  perfect  and  innocent  confidence  in  me. 
Her  defence  of  my  character,  whenever  it  is  attacked,  almost 
touches  my  heart ;  but  her  mother,  her  intrusive  mother,  that 
would-be  paragon  of  her  sex,  rises  before  me,  and  continually 
urges  me  on ;  she  shall  learn,  to  her  cost,  that  her  carefully- 
trained  children  are  not  better  than  others." 

"  She  has  learned  it  partly  already,  by  your  account,"  re- 
marked Miss  Malison,  concealing  under  a  calm  exterior  her 
detestation  of  Mrs.  Hamilton. 

"  She  has.  That  rejection  of  St.  Eval  assisted  me  most 
agreeably ;  I  did  not  expect  that  Caroline's  own  spirit  and  self- 
will  would  have  aided  me  so  effectually.  That  disappointment 
with  St  Eval  has  affected  Mrs.  Hamilton  more  deeply  than 
she  chooses  to  make  visible.  Her  coldness  and  severity  to- 


120  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

wards  her  child  spring  from  her  own  angry  and  mortified  feel- 
ings :  however,  she  lays  it  to  the  score  of  Caroline's  faulty  con- 
duct, and  my  friendly  letters  have  happily  convinced  Caroline 
such  is  the  case.  In  my  most,  sanguine  expectations  of 
triumph,  I  never  imgined  I  should  succeed  so  well  in  severing 
the  link  between  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  her  daughter.  Confi- 
dence is  utterly  at  an  end  between  them,  and  that  would  be 
sufficient  to  gratify  any  one  but  myself;  but  my  vengeance  for 
the  prejudice  and  dislike  with  which  this  perfect  creature  re- 
gards me  must  be  more  fully  satisfied,  at  present  it  is  only 
soothed.  Now  you  know,  chere  Malison,  you  are  dying  with 
curiosity  to  hear  what  new  assistance  has  started  up  ;  a  little 
more  patience  and  you  shall  know  all.  You  are  aware  with 
what  bitter  and  resentful  feelings  Caroline  regards  the  treat- 
ment she  receives  from  her  parents,  and  also  from  Emmeline, 
child  as  she  is." 

"  Perfectly  ;  nor  do  I  wonder  at;  it.  In  this  case  the  immac- 
ulate Mrs.  Hamilton  does  not  appear  to  practise  what"  she 
preaches.  It  is  rather  wonderful,  that  one  who  says  so  much 
about  gentle  treatment  doing  more  good  than  harshness,  should 
now  make  her  own  child  suffer  beneath  her  severity." 

"  As  I  said  before,  Malison,  her  severity  is  but  a  disguise 
for  mortification  and  annoyance.  Lord  St.  Eval,  the  heir  of 
the  Malvern  peerage,  was  too  good  a  chance  to  be  thrown  away 
without  vexation.  Caroline  was  a  silly  fool  to  act  as  she  did, 
I  must  say  that  for  her,  grateful  as  I  ought  to  be  for  the  assist- 
ance that  foolish  act  lias  given  me.  As  for  rejecting  him 
merely  for  love  of  Alphingham,  it  is  a  complete  farce.  She 
no  more  loves  the  Viscount  than  I  do ;  perhaps  not  so  much. 
I  make  her  believe  she  does,  and  so  I  intend  to  do  till  my  plan 
is  fully  accomplished ;  but  love  him  as  she  would  have  done,  as 
in  all  probability,  at  the  present  moment,  she  loves  Lord 
St.  Eval.  she  does  not  and  never  will.  I  shall  make  a  fashion- 
able pair,  but  not  a  love  match,  Malison,  believe  me." 

"  That  Mrs.  Hamilton  may  have  the  exquisite  pleasure  of 
seeing  her  daughter  like  other  people,  however  different  she 
may  choose  to  be  herself ;  you  will  rather  do  her  a  kindness 
than  an  injury,  my  dear  Miss  Grahame." 

*  Fortunately  for  my  purpose,  she  will  not  think  so.  I 
snail,  through  Caroline,  inflict  a  deeper  wound  than  I  ever 
thought  to  have  done.  No  other  injury  would  have  touched 
her ;  she  prides  herself  on  Christian  forbearance  and  patience, 
and  such  like,  which,  simply  translated,  would  be  found  to  bo 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  121 

nothing  but  haughtiness  and  pride,  and  utter  insensibility  to 
human  feelings  ;  but  if  Caroline  goes  wrong,  elopes,  perhaps. 
as  her  aunt  did.  disregards  parental  commands,  and  acts  in  the 
weighty  affair  of  matrimony  for  herself,  why  that  will  be 
something  like  a  triumph  for  my  diplomatic  schemes." 

"  You  must  work  well  on  Caroline's  mind  to  produce  such 
a  consummation,"  observed  Miss  Malison.  "I  doubt  much 
whether  she  would  ever  act  in  a  manner  that  she  would  believe 
BO  contrary  to  her  duty.  I  would  advise  you  never  to  give  her 
time  to  reflect." 

"  I  never  mean  to  do  so.  If  the  silly  gir.  had  ever  inflect- 
ed at  all.  she  would  at  once  have  known  that  she-  loved  St.  Eval 
and  not  Lord  Alphingham  ;  that  her  mother  is  b/*r  truest  friend, 
and  not  Annie  Grahame ;  but  as  she  choose?  to  remain  so 
stupidly  blind  and  trusting,  why  I  see  no  harm  in  playing  my 
part,  and  as  for  her  consenting,  let  her  but  heav  the  honorable 
Viscount's  sweet  persuasive  eloquence,  and  look  on  his  hand- 
some and  pleading  features,  and  consent  wil  quickly  be  ob- 
iained." 

-  But  why  should  he  not  demand  her  at  once  of  her  father  1 
Mr.  Hamilton  is  always  friendly  with  him  when  they  meet." 

"  You  have  just  hit  the  mark,  ma  chcre.  That  very  truth 
vras  always  a  stumbling-block  in  niy  machinations,  for  I  almost 
feared,  by  Mr.  Hamilton's  manner  towards  him.  that  the  inter- 
esting tales  concerning  his  youth,  which  I  had  intended  should 
be  poured  into  his  wife's  ear,  might  be  disregarded  ;  such  from 
the  first  had  been  my  intention,  but  I  have  felt  puzzled  in  a 
degree  how  to  set  about  it." 

••  Nay,  you  do  yourself  injury,  my  dearest  Miss  Grahame,'' 
observed  the  ex-governess,  officiously.  "  From  your  earliest 
years  you  were  never  puzzled  at  any  thing  -1 

"  My  wits  deserted  me  then  for  the  moment,"  replied  Annie, 
laughing,  ;i  and  would  perhaps  have  returned  when  my  plot 
was  ripe  for  execution ;  but  I  am  happy  to  say  I  can  dispense 
with  their  assistance,  as  I  have  received  it  most  effectually  from 
a  member  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  own  family." 

"  How  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Malison,  much  astonished. 

u  Even  so.  ma  chere;  and  now  we  come  to  the  important 
intelligence  Caroline  brought  me  this  morning.  It  appears, 
that  last  week  Mr.  Hamilton  received  a  letter  from  Percy, 
which  by  her  account  must  have  contained  some  mysterious 
warning  against  this  very  Lord  Alphingham.  that  his  atten- 
tions to  Caroline  had  been  not  only  remarked,  but  reported  to 
6 


122  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE 

him,  and  conjuring  his  father,  as  he  valued  Caroline's  future 
peace,  to  dismiss  him  at  once  and  peremptorily.  Tims  much 
Mr.  Hamilton  imparted  to  his  daughter,  a  few  days  after  the 
receipt  of  this  letter,  and  after  bestowing  some  little  approba- 
tion on  her  conduct  towards  him,  which  you  know  before  her 
parents  is  always  particularly  cold  and  guarded,  he  requested, 
or  rather  desired,  that  she  would  gradually  withdraw  herself 
entirely  from  his  society,  as  he  had  received  quite  sufficient 
confirmation  of  that  letter  to  render  him  anxious  to  break  oil 
all  further  communication  and  acquaintance  with  him.  Caro- 
line is  such  a  simpleton,  I  wonder  she  could  prevent  her  coun- 
tenance from  betraying  her  as  she  spoke  ;  but  I  suppose  she 
did,  for  Mr.  Hamilton  expressed  himself  satisfied  by  her 
assurance  that  his  wishes  should  not  be  forgotten.  Whether 
this  letter  contains  other  and  more  explicit  matter  she  does 
not  know,  but  her  state  of  inind  is  miserable  enough  to 
touch  any  heart  that  is  not  quite  so  steeled  as  mine.  I  oould 
almost  smile  at  her  fond  belief  that  she  really  loves  him,  for  I 
see  my  own  work,  no  tender  passion  as  she  imagines  ;  and  to 
break  off  all  intercourse  with  him  appears  comparative  torture. 
I  have  already  convinced  her  of  her  father's  injustice  and 
cruelty  in  acting  thus  capriciously  towards  one  so  well  known 
and  so  universally  honored,  and  merely  from  a  mysterious  and 
unsatisfactory  letter  from  a  boy  who  knows  nothing  about  the 
matter.-  I  hinted  very  broadly,  that  it  was  only  because  her 
parents  were  provoked  at  her  rejection  of  St.  Eval ;  and  as 
they  still  had  a  lingering  hope  he  would  return,  they  did  not 
choose  her  to  receive  attentions  from  any  one  else.  I  saw 
her  eyes  flash  and  her  cheek  crimson  with  indignation  against 
all  who  had  thus  injured  her;  and  she  declared,  with  more 
vehemence  than  I  expected,  that  neither  father  nor  mother,  nor 
Percy,  should  prevent  her  choosing  a  husband  for  herself.  A 
violent  burst  of  tears  succeeded  this  speech ;  but  I  continued 
to  soothe  and  cgnsole  her,  and  she  left  me  with  a  spirit  vowed 
and  determined  to  free  herself  from  such  galling  tyrannj'. 
And  what  do  you  think  had  been  her  mood  when  she  first  camo 
to  me  ?" 

Miss  Malison,  as  expected,  expressed  ignorance. 

"Why,  the  weak  simpleton  thought  of  confessing  her  whole 
tale  of  love  to  her  mother,  and  imploring  comfort  and  assist- 
ance." 

"  Take  care  she  does  not  do  so  still,"  remarked  Miss  Mali- 
eon. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  123 

"  Not  she.  I  have  proved  too  clearly  how  ridiculous  and 
miserable  she  would  make  herself  by  such  a  denouement. 
Her  mother,  I  said,  instead  of  pitying,  would  assuredly  con- 
demn her  for  all  the  past,  and  most  probably  convey  her  at 
once  to  Oakwood,  and  immure  her  there  till  Lord  St.  Eval 
came  to  release  her.  She  was  both  terrified  and  indignant  at 
the  idea." 

'•  No  wonder  she  should  be ;  but  do  you  know  if  she  or 
her  father  have  seen  Lord  Alphingham  sine*  the  arrival  of 
this  letter?" 

"  But  once,  last  night ;  and  it  was  the  fancied  anguish  felt 
for  his  distress,  which  she  was  unable,  as  usuc*!,  to  soothe,  in 
consequence  of  the  keen  surveillance  of  her  mother,  that 
brought  her  here  this  morning  to  tell  me  all.  Mr.  Hamilton 
was  still  courteous,  but  more  distant.  I  have  convinced  her, 
that  as  her  parents  no  longer  treat  her  with  confidence,  she 
has  no  right  to  treat  them  with  any;  and  as  e^ery  one  knows 
the  worthy  character  of  the  Viscount,  she  can  be  doing  nothing 
wrong  in  proving  to  him  that  her  feelings  in  his  favor  are  un- 
changed. She  has  hinted  to  me  to  explain  the  situation  in 
which  she  is  placed,  but  entre  nous,  I  mean  to  do  no  such  thing, 
for  I  have  a  plan  of  my  own  to  follow  up.  She  is  not  aware 
how  very  intimate  I  am  with  the  Viscount,  and  how  much  he 
confides  in  me  ;  all  my  persuasions  will  tend  to  urge  him  to  ask 
her  of  her  father,  and  I  am  sure  nothing  can  be  more  honor 
ablo  than  that  course  of  action." 

"  Nothing,  I  am  sure,"  echoed  the  conscientious  confidant ; 
'•but  how  will  that  assist  your  former  scheme?" 

"  Most  admirably.  Mr.  Hamilton  will,  of  course,  decidedly 
refuse  his  consent,  without  even  consulting  his  daughter  ;  the 
anger  of  Lord  Alphingham  will  be  overpowering ;  rage  against 
the  father,  and  love  for  the  daughter  will  urge  him  to  any  and 
every  means  to  obtain  her  hand.  Caroline's  indignation  against 
her  father  for  acting  in  this  way  and  treating  her  so  much  like 
a  child,  feelings  which  I  shall  take  care  to  create  and  foster, 
will  second  his  eloquence,  and  I  feel  quite  certain  that  next 
season  Caroline  Hamilton  mingles  in  the  most  fashionable  cir- 
cles as  the  Viscountess  Alphingham ;  and  to  obtain  such  » 
triumphant  end,  in  my  opinion,  no  means  are  faulty." 

"  Most  assuredly  not.  Not  only  the  young  lady  herself, 
but  her  whole  family  ought  to  be  eternally  grateful,  for  without 
such  manoeuvring  I  doubt  much  whether  the  perfect  daughter 
or  the  self-satisfied  mother  would  obtain  an  establishment  in 


124  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

all  things  so  desirable.  Enraged  as  she  will  be  at  first  at  such 
unexpected  conduct  in  the  child  she  has  so  ill-treated,  she  will 
thank  you  in  the  end,  Miss  Grahame,  depend  upon  it." 

"  If  I  thought  so,  Malison,  on  my  honor,  I  should  feel  dis- 
inclined to  proceed  one  step  further  in  the  business.  Give  her 
cause  to  thank  me,  feel  that  I  have  unwittingly  been  of  service 
to  her  whom  of  her  whole  sex  I  hate  the  most,  to  one  who  from 
my  earliest  years  I  know  regarded  me  with  aversion  and  con- 
tempt: Malison,  I  would  draw  back  on  the  instant  did  I  think 
so.  But  no,  it  will  not.  it  shall  not  be  ;  the  life  of  her  child 
as  Countess  of  Alphingham  will  not  be  such  as  to  bring  peace 
to  Mrs.  Hamilton's  heart:  to  some  mothers  it  might,  but  not 
to  hers.  Slie  shall  behold  in  this  marriage  the  complete 
failure  of  her  plans,  the  utter  wreck  of  all  her  exclusive  notions ; 
she  shall  §ec  that  her  pretended  goodness  and  Christian  exam- 
ple are  not  exemplified  in  Caroline  at  least.  She  shall  feel  my 
power — aye,  bitterly.  Thus  will  I  triumph — in  Caroline's  dis- 
obedience will  I  be  avenged  for  the  contempt  and  dislike  her 
mother  has  ever  shown  to  me." 

She  suddenly  raised  her  slight  figure  to  its  full  height,  and 
looked  on  her  companion  with  a  countenance  expressive  of  such 
malignant  triumph,  that  all,  save  her  companion  in  iniquity, 
must  have  shuddered  as  they  beheld  such  youthful  features  so 
deformed.  Some  other  conversation  passed  between  her  and 
her  able  confidant,  but  as  little  more  was  said  on  the  subject 
most  interesting  to  us,  we  will  not  follow  them  further.  Annie's 
evil  schemes  air  already  too  clearly  displayed ;  her  mind,  un- 
able as  Miss  Malison's  to  comprehend  the  exalted  nature  of 
Mrs.  Hamilton's  character,  looked  upon  it  with  detestation  ;  the 
more  so.  as  feeling  she  was  ever  acting — she  believed  it  hypoc- 
risy ;  that  the  worth  for  which  even  those  who  visited  her  not, 
gave  her  credit,  was  not  her  real  character,  but  an  artful  veil 
to  conceal  evil  qualities.  The  quick  penetration  of  Miss  Gra- 
hame had  even  in  childhood  discovered  that  she  was  no  favorite, 
and  accustomed  to  be  spoiled  and  flattered  by  all  with  whom 
she  associated,  her  indignation  and'  dislike  towards  the 
only  one  who  would  dare  treat  her  differently,  look  on  her  as 
a  mere  child,  rendered  ridiculous  by  affectation,  increased  with 
her  years.  ^  She  soon  discovered  the  influence  she  possessed 
over  Caroline,  and  on  that,  knowing  also  her  faults,  she  de- 
termined to  work,  and  thus  effectually  destroy  the  peace  of  a 
mother  devoted  to  her  children,  and  prove  to  the  world  that 
the  eccentric  seclusion  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  for  their 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  125 

children's  benefit  was  productive  of  no  more  good,  if  as  much, 
as  the  plain  and  iu  her  eyes  only  useful  plan  of  fashionable 
education. 

In  her  first  scheme  she  had  already  succeeded  more  than 
she  was  perhaps  conscious.  The  affair  of  St.  Eval  had  clearly 
and  painfully  proved  to  Mr.  Hamilton  that  the  fears  of  hia 
wife  the  night  of  Caroline's  introduction — those  anxious  fears, 
were  indeed  well  founded.  She  had  sunk  beneath  temptation  ; 
integrity  and  honor,  and  every  better  feeling  had  been  over- 
come by  that  inordinate  love  of  pewer  which  her  mother  from 
the  first  had  seen  and  dreaded.  The  father's  heart  was  pained 
and  disappointed,  not  only  in  this,  but  that  his  Caroline  now 
was  not  the  same  as  she  had  been  at  Oakwood.  A  change 
had  come  over  her,  and  darkening  her  spirit,  rendered  her 
conduct  at  home  gloomy,  distrustful,  and  uneasy  ;  the  irritabi- 
lity of  her  childhood  had  returned,  her  very  conversation  ap- 
peared restrained,  and  since  the  departure  of  Lord  St.  Eval, 
her  cheek  had  become  pale,  and  her  eye  no  longer  sparkling ; 
and  only  in  the  excitement  of  society  her  parents  beheld  her 
as  formerly.  Mr.  Hamilton  was  deeply  grieved,  but  he  knew 
not.  guessed  not  the  extent  of  his  wife's  anguish.  She  saw 
every  foreboding  fear  fulfilled  ;  the  confidence  of  her  child  was 
entirely  withheld  from  her  ;  the  coldness  with  which  she  felt 
compelled  to  treat  her  disregard  of  her  wishes  had,  she  felt  as- 
sured, completely  alienated  her  affection.  Caroline  could  no 
longer  love  her ;  every  week,  every  day  proved,  by  a  hundred 
minute  circumstances,  her  affection  was  fleeting,  and  her  mo- 
ther despairingly  felt,  never  to  return  ;  and  yet  she  had  but 
done  her  duty,  exercised  her  natural  authority  to  lead  her 
erring  child  in  the  better  way.  Her  firm  unshrinking  dis- 
cipline in  childhood  had  only  bound  the  cords  of  affection 
between  herself  and  her  offspring  more  firmly  together ;  but 
now  in  the  case  of  Caroline  it  appeared  about  to  snap  them 
asunder. '  Her  fond  heart  yearned  constantly  towards  her 
daughter,  but  she  would  not  give  way,  for  the  sake  of  Emme- 
liuc  and  Ellen,  whose  efforts  vied  with  each  other  to  increase 
tho  comfort  and  happiness  of  her  they  so  dearly  loved.  Their 
affection,  their  confidence,  would  not  change,  no,  however  her 
authority  might  interfere  with  their  wishes ;  and  should  she 
become  repining  and  gloomy,  because  there  was  one  source  of 
sorrow  amidst  so  many  blessings,  her  pious  heart  struggled  for 
submission,  and  obtained  it.  But  Caroline  guessed  not  the 
deep  pang  she  had  inflicted;  she  knew  not  the  many  tears 


126  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

shed  in  secret,  the  many  inward  prayers  offered  up  fop  ner 
that  however  severe  was  her  chastening,  it  might  be  blessed, 
and  bring  her  back  to  the  deserted  fold,  to  the  bosom  of  her 
mother.  She  knew  not  this,  nor  was  Annie  conscious  how  fear- 
fully her  plans  had  succeeded  in  inflicting  pain. 

The  very  cheerfulness  of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  striven  for  as  it 
was,  the  unwavering  kindness  of  her  manner  towards  Em  inc- 
line and  Ellen,  increased  the  irritability  of  Caroline,  arid  with 
it  her  indignation  at  her  mother's  coldness  and  severity  to- 
wards  herself.  She  felt  she  was  indeed  a  slave,  and  loiged  to 
throw  aside  that  galling  bondage.  What  right  had  her  mother 
to  treat  her  thus  ?  Why  must  her  every  action  be  controlled, 
her  very  friendship  disapproved  of?  She  felt  she  was  the  in- 
jured one,  and  therefore  allowed  herself  no  thought  for  her 
whom  she  in  truth  had  injured.  For  the  same  reason  she 
clung  yet  closer  to  Annie  ;  in  her  alone,  in  her  present  state 
of  mind,  she  found  full  sympathy,  and  yet  even  with  her  she 
was  not  happy  t  there  was  a  strange  indefinable  sensation  in 
her  heart  that  even  to  her  friend  slje  could  not  express.  Thore 
was  a  void  within,  a  deep  yearning  void,  which  tortured  her 
in  her  solitary  moments,  which  even  the  society  of  Lord  Al- 
phingham  could  not  wholly  remove*  In  solitude  she  blindly 
taught  herself  to  believe  that  void  must  be  for  him.  How  far 
she  erred  a  future  page  must  tell. 

Her  conduct  in  society  meanwhile,  since  the  departure  of 
St.  Eval,  had  been  guarded  and  reserved,  and  her  parents 
fondly  trusting  their  displeasure  had  been  of  service,  relaxed 
after  the  first  fortnight  in  their  coldness  and  mistrustful  man- 
ner towards  her.  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  hoped  the  pale  cheek 
and  dim  eye  proceeded  from  remorse  ;  and  had  not  Caroline 
been  so  pointedly  distant  and  reserved  when  in  her  society,  she 
would  have  lavished  on  her  all  the  tenderness  of  former  years. 

When  that  mysterious  letter  from  Percy  came,  although  it 
caused  his  parents  considerable  anxiety,  yet  it  never  once  oc- 
curred that  any  coldness  on  their  part  towards  Lord  Alphing- 
ham  could  occasion  Caroline  any  pain.  Percy  wrote  with  a 
degree  of  eloquent  earnestness  that  could  not  be  resisted,  and 
guarded  as  his  information  and  caution  was,  Mr.  Hamilton  de« 
termined  implicitly  to  abide  by  it.  The  young  man  wrote 
what  Annie  had  informed  Miss  Malison  ;  that  he  had  hoard 
from  more  than  one  quarter  of  Lord  Alphingham's  marked 
attentions  to  his  sister,  that  he  had  even  been  congratulated  on 
the  brilliant  alliance  Caroline  was  about  to  make.  He  did  not, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  127 

be  could  not  believe  that  such  was  the  case,  he  said,  for  he 
should  then  have  heard  it  from  his  parents,  but  he  conjured 
his  father,  however  casual  the  Viscount's  attentions  might  be, 
to  withdraw  Caroline  entirely  from  them. 

'•  I  know  well."  he  wrote.  "  Father,  as  you  value  my  sis- 
ter's future  peace,  expose  her  not  to  his  many  fascinations. 
If  he  has  endeavored  to  win  her  heart,  if  he  has  paid  her 
marked  attentions,  he  is  a  villain  !  I  dare  not  be  more  expli- 
cit. I  am  pledged  to  silence,  and  only  to  you.  my  dear  father, 
and  on  such  an  emergency,  am  I  privileged  to  write  thus  much. 
Desire  Caroline  to  give  him  no  more  encouragement,  however 
slight;  but  do  not  tell  even  this,  it  may  not  only  alarm  her, 
but  be  imparted  perhaps  to  her  friend,  as  young  ladies  are  fond 
of  doing.  You  have  once  said  I  never  deceived  you  ;  father, 
trust  me  now,  this  is  no  jest;  my  sister's  happiness  is  too  dear 
to  me.  Break  off  all  connection  with  Lord  Alphingham.  I 
give  no  credit  to  the  rumors  I  have  heard,  for  your  letters 
this  season  bade  me  hope  Lord  St.  Eval  would  have  been  my 
sister's  choice.  His  departure  from  England  has  dispelled 
these  visions :  but  yet  Caroline's  affections  cannot  have  been 
given  to  Lord  Alphingham  without  your  or  my  mother's  know- 
ledge. Again  I  implore  you,  associate  no  more  with  him,  he 
is  not  worthy  of  my  father's  friendship." 

Mysterious  as  this  was,  yet  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton 
knew  Percy  too  well  to  imagine  he  would  write  thus  without 
strong  cause.  The  suspicions  and  .almost  unconscious  preju- 
dice entertained  towards  him  by  Mrs.  Hamilton  received  con- 
firmation by  this  letter,  and  she  was  pleased  that  her  husband 
determined  no  longer  to  encourage  his  intimacy.  Percy  wrote, 
if  he  had  paid  Caroline  marked  attentions,  or  endeavored  to 
win  her  heart,  he  was  a  villain,  and  he  had  done  so,  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton  could  not  but  feel  sufficiently  rejoiced  at  Caroline's 
apparent  manner  towards  him.  Deceived  as  she  had  been,  yet 
that  her  once  honorable  child  should  so  entirely  forget  tli6 
principles  of  her  childhood,  as  to  give  him  secret  encourage- 
ment, while  her  conduct  in  society  rather  bespoke  indifference 
and  pride  than  pleasure,  that  Caroline  could  have  been  led  to 
act  thus  was  a  thing  so  morally  impossible  to  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
that  she  had  no  hesitation  whatever  in  complying  with  Percy's 
request,  little  imagining  that  in  doing  so  she  placed  an  insepa- 
rable bar  to  her  regaining  the  confidence  of  her  child,  and 
Widened  more  painfully  the  breach  between  them. 

Caroline's  heart,  on  receiving  her  father's  command  to  with- 


128  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

draw  herself  by  degrees  entirely  from  Lord  Alphingham,  wal 
wrung  with  many  bitter  and  contending  feelings.  At  first  she 
reproached  herself  for  having  thus  completely  concealed  her 
feelings,  and,  had  she  followed  the  impulse  of  nature,  sl.e 
would  at  once  have  thrown  herself  on  her  mother's  neck,  and 
there  confessed  all,  that  she  loved  him  ;  that  she  had  long 
done  so.  and  implore  her  not  to  check  their  intercourse  with- 
out some  explicit  reason :  but  Annie's  evil  influence  had  been 
too  powerful.  She  dreaded  her  reproaches  on  this  want  of  con- 
fidence in  herself,  or.  what  was  still  worse,  her  satirical  smile 
at  her  ridiculous  weakness,  and  then  she  remembered  her  mo- 
ther's displeasure  at  her  former  conduct,  and  dreaded  a  rei.iw- 
al  of  the  same  coldness,  perhaps  even  increased  control.  S!ie 
determined,  therefore,  to  wait  till  she  had  seen  Annie;  and 
that  interview  rendered  her  more  miserable,  excited  still  more 
her  indignaion  against  her  parents  and  brother,  and  strength- 
ened the  feelings  of  devoted  affection  with  which  she  fancied 
she  regarded  Lord  Alphingham. %  Annie's  continued  notes 
confirmed  these  feelings ;  under  the  specious  intention  of 
soothing  Caroline's  wounded  pride,  it  was  very  easy  for  her  to 
disguise  her  repeated  insinuations  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton's 
injustice  and  caprice  towards  the  Viscount,  and  tyranny  to- 
wards herself.  The  veil  she  had  thrown  over  Caroline's  sober 
judgment  became  thicker  and  more  blinding,  and  Caroline 
could  sometimes  scarcely  restrain  even  before  her  parents  the 
indignation  which  so  continually  filled  her  heart. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  ignorant  of  the  communications  that 
were  so  constantly  passing  between  Annie  and  her  daughter, 
or  she  might  perhaps  have  put  a  stop  to  them.  Caroline's  own 
maid,  Fanny,  had  been  persuaded  to  become  the  means  of  re- 
ceiving and  sending  their  intelligence  in  secret.  The  conscience 
of  the  girl  reproached  her  more  than  onee,  but  the  idea  was  so 
improbable  that  Miss  Caroline  could  act  improperly,  that  she 
continued  faithful  to  her  wishes,  even  against  her  better  judg- 
ment. 

Lord  Alphingham's  ready  penetration  was  puzzled  at  the 
change  of  manner  in  both  Mr.  Hamilton  and  his  daughter. 
The  latter,  he  could  easily  perceive,  was  constrained  to  act 
thus,  and  his  determination  to  release  her  from  such  thraldom 
became  more  strongly  fixed  within  him.  He  became  as  cold  and 
reserved  to  her  father  as  3Ir.  Hamilton  had  been  to  him  ;  but 
his  silent  yet  despairing  glances  ever  turned  towards  Caroline 
were,  be  felt  assured,  quite  enough  to  rivet  his  influence  Riora 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE,  129 

closely  around  her.  The  following  morning,  as  Annie  had  ex- 
pected, the  Viscount  sought  her  to  give  vent  to  his  fears  about 
Caroline  ;  his  indignation  against  the  unaccountable  alteration 
in  Mr.  Hamilton's  manner.  What  could  have  caused  it?  Ho 
had  ever  acted  honorably  and  nobly,  openly  marked  his  pre- 
ference, and  he  had  talked  himself  into  a  passion,  before  his 
companion  offered  to  give  him  any  advice  or  speak  any  comfort. 

'•  They  are  either  determined  their  daughter  shall  not  marry 
whom  she  likes,  in  revenge  for  her  not  accepting  whom  they 
selected,  or  they  are  resolved,  by  this  studied  display  of  cold- 
ness, to  bring  you  to  a  point,  so  I  advise  you  to  speak  to  this 
stern,  capricious  father  at  once." 

"  And  what  good  will  that  do?" 

"  A  good  deal,  if  you  manoeuvre  properly,  on  which  quality 
you  fortunately  require  no  lessens  from  me.  You  will,  at  least, 
discover  Mr.  Hamilton's  intentions.  If  he  receive  you,  well 
and  good,  you  should  be  flattered  at  his  condescension  ;  if  the 
contrary,  you  will,  at  least,  know  on  what  ground  you  stand, 
and  the  situation  in  which  my  poor  friend  must  be  placed.  She  is 
worried  to  death  with  the  continual  caprices  of  mamma  and 
papa.  It  would  be  a  charity  in  any  one  to  break  the  chains  in 
which  she  is  held.  She  came  to  me  yesterday  in  the  deepest 
distress,  and  all  from  caprice ;  for  what  else  can  it  be  that  has 
changed  Mr.  Hamilton's  manner?" 

Lord  Alphingham's  fancy  became  more  and  more  warmed 
as  she  spoke  ;  vanity  and  self-love  were  alike  gratified,  and  he 
answered  eagerly — 

"  I  may  depend,  then,  on  her  affections ;  she  will  not,  for 
fear  of  mamma,  play  me  false  ?" 

"  Not  she ;  that  is  to  say,  if  you  do  not  betray  her  in  your 
eagerness  to  ask  her  of  her  father.  You  have  never  yet  asked 
the  question, though  you  have  discovered  she  loves  you;  but  if,  in 
demanding  her  of  her  father,  you  say  you  have  gained  her 
affections,  the  consequence  will  be.  if  Mr.  Hamilton  refuse  her, 
she  will  be  borne  instantly  to  Oakwood,  and  there  imprisoned, 
till  the  poor  girl  pines  and  droops  like  a  chained  bird  without 
hope  of  freedom.  Whereas,  if  you  will  only  govern  your  im- 
petuous temper,  and  trust  to  her  affections  and  my  friendship, 
your  every  wish  may  be  gratified,  with  or  without  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton's advice." 

"  And  you  will  assist  us ;— adorable  girl  !  how  can  we  ever 
repay  you?"  he  exclaimed,  raising  her  hand  passionately  to  hia 
lips.  The  cheek  of  Annie  suddenly  blanched,  but  a  cold,  proud 
6* 


ISO  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

smile  curled  her  lip.  She  answered  him  in  his  ( wn  spirit,  and 
after  a  prolonged  interview,  the  viscount  departed  to  act  on  her 
advice. 

Ere  that  day  closed,  Lord  Alphingham  had  sought  Mr. 
Hamilton,  and  with  every  demonstration  of  respectful  yet  pas- 
sionate affection,  solicited  his  consent  to  address  his  daughter. 
The  warning  of  his  son,  the  strong  term  he  had  used,  were 
engraved  on  Mr.  Hamilton's  mind,  and  scarcely  could  he  an- 
nwer  the  Viscount  with  his  accustomed  calmness.  Politely  but 
decidedly  he  refused,  adding,  that  he  had  hoped  the  constant 
reserve  of  Caroline's  manner  would  at  once  have  convinced  him 
of  her  feelings,  and  spared  him  the  pain  of  refusing  for  her  the 
honorable  alliance  Lord  Aphingham  proposed.  A  haughty 
and  somewhat  triumphant  smile  played  for  a  second  on  the 
Viscount's  lips,  but  Mr.  Hamilton  understood  not  its  import ; 
and  his  companion,  with  many  expressions  of  wounded  feeling 
and  injured  honor,  departed,  leaving  Mr.  Hamilton  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise  at  this  affair,  as  it  gave  him  a  plausible 
excuse  for  withdrawing  entirely  from  his  society.  He  imparted 
•what  had  passed  to  his  wife,  and  both  agreed  it  was  better  for 
Caroline  to  say  nothing  of  his  proposals  ;  and  this  determina- 
tion, for  once,  was  not  thwarted  by  Annie,  who  thought  it  bet- 
ter for  Lord  Alphingham  to  plead  his  own  cause  at  some  future 
time,  when  the  idea  of  his  having  been  refused  without  consult- 
ing her,  the  person  principally  concerned,  would  excite  yet 
greater  indignation  towards  her  parents,  and  assist  effectually 
the  cause  of  her  lover,  who  leaving  town  for  a  week  or  two  to 
prove  to  Mr.  Hamilton  his  wounded  feelings  were  no  pretence, 
or  for  some  other  reason,  left  to  Annie  the  charge  of  preparing 
Caroline's  mind  for  the  alternative  he  might  propose. 

A  circumstance  happened  about  this  time,  which  appeared 
greatly  to  favor  the  schemes  of  Annie  and  Lord  Alphingham, 
and  expose  Caroline  more  powerfully  to  temptation.  The 
Duchess  of  Rothbury  had  invited  a  select  number  of  friends 
to  wile  away  the  remaining  weeks  of  the  London  season  at  her 
elegant  seat,  which  was  situated  in  a  lovely  spot,  about  twenty 
miles  from  the  metropolis.  Amongst  the  number  she,  of 
course,  included  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  expressed  herself  very 
much  disappointed  when  that  lady  tendered  excuses.  Mr. 
Hamilton  could  not  leave  town  ;  he  had  put  Mr.  Myrvin's  case 
into  the  hands  of  an  able  solicitor,  and  wished  to  remain  on 
the  spot  himself  to  urge  on  the  business,  that  it  might  be  com- 
pleted before  he  returned  to  Oakwood.  It  was  not  likely,  he 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  131 

said,  that  the  affair  would  occupy  much  time,  the  whole  circum- 
stance being  directly  illegal.  It  had  only  been  the  age  and 
poverty,  combined  with  the  shrinking  sensitiveness  from  pub- 
lic gaze,  which  had  prevented  Mr.  Myrvin  from  coming  for- 
ward at  the  very  first  against  his  persecutor.  A  specious 
tale  had  been  brought  forward  to  excuse  the  illegality,  and  im- 
pose on  the  bishop  in  whose  diocese  Llangwillan  was  situated, 
and  Myrvin,  though  he  could  meet  trials  with  resignation,  was 
too  broken-hearted  to  resist  them.  Thus  much  Mr.  Hamilton 
had  learned  from  A  rtlmr,  to  whom  he  wrote  himself,  requesting 
him  to  give  a  minute  account  of  the  whole  circumstance.  His 
earnestness,  seconded  by  the  entreaties  of  both  his  sous,  suc- 
ceeded in  banishing  Arthur's  proud  reserve,  and  Mr.  Hamilton 
was  now  engaged  heart  and  soul  in  his  benevolent  scheme  of 
exposing  iniquity,  and  restoring  the  injured  clergyman  to  his 
grieving  flock.  He  could  not,  therefore,  leave  London,  and 
Mrs.  Hamilton  who,  for  mere  amusement,  could  not  bear  to 
part  from  her  children,  for  only  Caroline  was  to  accompany 
her,  steadily  resisted  the  entreaties  of  her  friend.  For  herself 
she  was  firm,  but  she  hesitated  when  the1  Ducheirs,  seconded  by 
her  daughters,  requested  most  persuadingly,  that  if  she  would 
not  come  herself,  she  would,  at  least,  permit  Caroline  to  join 
them. 

"  You  have  known  me  so  long,  that  I  have  the  vanity  to 
believe,  that  if  I  promise  to  guard  your  child  as  if  she  were 
my  own,  you  will  trust  her  with  me,"  her  grace  urged,  with  a 
pertinacity  that  could  not  fail  to  be  flattering.  '•  She  will  be 
as  safe  under  my  care  as  were  she  under  the  observance  of  her 
mother." 

•'  That  I  do  not  doubt  one  moment,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
earnestly ;  "  :f  I  hesitated,  it  was  from  no  doubt  of  either 
your  grace's  care  or  kindness.  If  Caroline  be  willing  to  accept 
your  invitation,  and  her  father  consent,  she  has  my  permis- 
sion." 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  friend  ;  I  trusted  in  my  eloquence 
to  prevail.''  the  Duchess  said,  smiling  with  an  air  of  sincerity 
that  gratified  Mrs.  Hamilton ;  and  she  quickly  imparted  to 
Caroline  the  accepted  invitation,  but  in  vain  endeavored  to 
read  on  the  face  of  her  child  whether  she  were  pleased  or 
otherwise.  Circumstances  which  caused  Mrs.  Hamilton 
rather  to  rejoice  at  Caroline's  absence  from  London  for  a  time, 
were  to  the  latter  great  preventives  to  the  enjoyment  to  which, 
in  such  elegant  society,  she  might  otherwise  have  looked  for* 


132  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

ward.  Annie  Grahame  was,  much  to  her  own  vexation,  ex 
eluded  from  this  select  circle.  The  Duchess  had  penetrated 
her  designing  character,  and  regarded  her  with  a  prejudice,  as 
violent  as  was  her  nature.  She  was  only  invited  to  those 
large  assemblies  which  included  all  her  acquaintances,  not 
merely  her  friends.  Amazed  at  this  slight.  Miss  Grahame  at 
once  determined  that  there  the  catastrophe  for  which  she  had 
so  long  planned  should  take  place,  and  her  detestation  of  Mrs. 
Hamilton  be  gratified  to  the  uttermost. 

Would  Lord  Alphingham  be  there  ?  was  a  question  that 
crossed  Caroline's  mind  repeatedly,  and  was  as  often  demand- 
ed of  her  friend.  Annie  either  would  not  or  could  not  tell ; 
and  she  would  add,  perhaps  she  ought  to  congratulate  Caro- 
line on  her  separation  from  him,  as  such  a  dread  mandate  had 
gone  from  her  parent,  and  she  surely  would  not  wish  to  encour- 
age his  society ;  and  then  she  would  implore  her  forgiveness, 
and  sympathize  so  well  iu  her  fancied  distress,  and  describe 
that  of  Lord  Alphingham  in  such  heightened  colors,  that  Caro- 
line, unsophisticated  as  in  some  things  she  still  was.  felt  truly 
miserable.  The  Viscount's  sudden  departure  from  town 
would  have  been  unaccountable,  had  not  Annie  succeeded  in 
persuading  her  that  she  was  sure  it  was  entirely  owing  to  her 
(Caroline's)  coldness  and  Mr.  Hamilton's  unaccountable  con- 
duct. 

Mr.  Hamilton  did  not  at  first  approve  of  his  daughter 
leaving  home  without  her  mother,  even  to  visit  the  Duchess  of 
llothbury,  but  he  yielded  to  the  solicitations  of  his  wife. 
They  knew  that  Lord  Alphingham  was  somewhat  of  a  favorite 
with  the  Duke,  but  felt  so  assured  that  the  heart  of  their  child 
was  entirely  disengaged,  at  least  to  him,  that  on  his  account 
they  did  not  hesitate.  Caroline's  conduct  with  regard  to  St. 
Eval  had,  they  were  convinced,  proceeded  from  the  pure  love 
of  coquetry  ;  they  could  not  believe  she  had  rejected  him  be- 
cause she  fancied  she  loved  another,  they  had  had  no  cause  to 
do  so:  and  since  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  spoken  so  seriously  on 
the  subject,  Caroline's  behavior  in  public  had  been  such  as  to 
excite  their  approbation,  and  renew,  in  some  measure,  their 
confidence  in  her  integrity.  She  was  more  reserved,  and  her 
manner  to  the  Viscount,  when  they  chanced  to  meet,  had  led 
them  trustingly  to  believe  their  commands  on  this  head  would 
be  implicitly  obeyed.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Hamilton's  penetration 
had  played  her  false ;  it  was  strange  that  a  mother  so  long  ac- 
customed to  divine  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  her  children, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  133 

should  have  bc^n  thus  blind  to  the  emotions  with  which  Caro 
line  believed  she  regarded  Lord  Alphingham.  But,  surely, 
no  farther  proof  than  this  was  wanting  to  clearly  demonstrate 
it  \vas  not  true  love  she  felt;  had  it  been  that  real,  pure,  fer- 
vid passion,  could  one  so  unused  to  art  have  concealed  the 
flushing  cheek,  the  sparkling  eye,  the  trembling  voice,  which 
would  invariably  have  betrayed  her  ?  No  ;  it  was  infatuation, 
— blind,  maddening  infatuation. — strengthened  by  indignation 
towards  her  parents ;  by  the  wish  to  prove  she  could  throw  off 
their  control,  and  choose  for  herself,  and  love  whom  and  where 
and  how  she  liked,  without  their  choice  and  sympathy;  and  it 
was  thus  she  completely  veiled  her  feelings.  Can  we  condemn 
her  mother  for  refusing  to  believe  the  child  she  had  trained 
and  watched,  and  prayed  for  so  long,  such  an  adept  in  deceit  ? 
Can  \\e  blame  her  want  of  penetration  in  this  instance,  and 
think  it  unnatural  in  her  character,  when  we  remember  how 
completely  the  character  of  her  child  was  changed?  Surely 
not.  It  would  have  been  stranger  had  she.  without  proof,  be- 
lieved Caroline  the  girl  she  had  really  become. 

The  reflection  that  she  could  still  write  to  Annie  and  hear 
from  her.  consoled  her  for  the  temporary  separation  ;  and  she 
joined  the  Duchess  with  some  degree  of  pleasure,  which  had, 
however,  been  slightly  alloyed  by  a  conversation  with  her  mo- 
ther befors  she  left  home.  Her  spirit  was  in  too  excitable  a 
state  to  hear  advice  calmly.  Every  word  Mrs.  Hamilton  so 
gently  said  on  her  conduct  being  more  guarded  now  than  when 
under  her  eye,  her  mild  entreaties  that  for  her  sake  Caroline 
would  behave  with  reserve,  all  fell  on  a  poisoned  ear.  Sullen- 
ly she  listened,  and  when  her  mother  bade  her  farewell,  it  was 
with  a  heart  grieving  bitterly.  While  smarting  under  sup- 
posed injuries,  how  little  did  Caroline  imagine  the  real  agony 
she  inflicted  on  her  mother.  If  the  gentle  heart  of  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton had  been  wrung  by  the  wayward  conduct  of  her  sister. 
how  much  more  so  must  it  have  been  wounded,  when  she  saw 
so  many  of  4hose  evil  qualities  reflected  in  her  child. 

At  Airslie.  so  the  residence  of  the  Duchess  of  Rothbury 
was  called.  Caroline  found  herself  universally  courted.  She 
knew  she  was  admired,  and  she  was  flattered  ;  but  there  was 
a  ceaseless  gnawing  at  her«  heart,  which  not  even  gratified 
vanity  could  still.  She  knew  not,  would  not  know,  it  was  re- 
morse. She  believed  it  was  the  conduct  of  her  parents ;  tho 
chain  that  was  thrown  round  her  actions,  her  disappointment 
with  regard  to  Lord  Alphinghain ;  for  he  was  not,  as  in  secret 


134  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

she  hoped  he  would  be,  one  of  the  invited  guests.  It  was  a 
task,  a  painful  task,  to  write  home,  but  she  forced  herself  to 
speak  of  the  scenes  around,  and  sketch,  with  a  masterly  hand, 
some  of  the  characters  with  whom  she  mingled  ;  and  her  pa- 
rents strove  to  be  satisfied,  though  there  was  somewhat  want- 
ing in  those  letters  which,  when  Caroline  had  been  from  home, 
they  had  never  missed  before. 

"  So  that  man  of  learning,  that  marvellous  prodigy,  that 
walking  cyclopaedia,  Lord  St.  Eval,  has  absolutely  deserted 
us,  to  bury  himself  in  Italy  or  Switzerland.  Miss  Hamilton, 
can  you  explain  so  wonderful  and  puzzling  an  enigma?"  mis- 
chievously demanded  Lord  Henry  D'Este.  one  day,  as  he 
found  himself  alone  near  Caroline.  His  friend's  departure 
had  indeed  been  to  him  a  riddle,  and  believing  at  length  that 
it  must  have  originated  in  her  caprice,  he  determined,  when- 
ever he  had  an  opportunity,  to  revenge  St.  Eval  by  doing  all 
in  his  power  to  torment  her.  A  deep  blush  overspread  Caro- 
line's cheeks  as  he  spoke,  for  except  that  Mary  Greville's  let- 
ters had  mentioned  him,  he  was  never  spoken  of  at  home. 

"  It  ought  not  to  appear  a  very  puzzling  riddle  to  you,"  she 
answered  quickly.  "  He  has  gone,  I  should  imagine,  to  collect 
fresh  matters  for  reflection,  that  he  may  better  deserve  the  title 
you  have  bestowed  upon  him." 

"  Nay,  nay,  surely  he  has  enough  of  such  matters  to  form 
four  and  twenty  good  folio  volumes,"  answered  Lord  Henry, 
laughing.  The  art  of  politeness  he  certainly  has  failed  to  re- 
tain, for  you  can  have  no  idea  what  a  brusque,  philosopher  he 
is.  I  assure  you,  he  terrified  me  the  last  time  I  saw  him. 
What  your  honorable  father  had  done  to  him  I  know  not,  but 
I  met  him  just  coming  from  Berkely  Square,  and  all  the 
charms  he  had  lately  invited  around  him  had  suddenly  depart- 
ed, he  was  a  different  man.  and  that  day,  in  a  fit,  I  suppose,  of 
spleen,  he  quits  London,  and  the  next  time  I  hear  of  him  he 
is  in  Geneva :  that  noble  Lord  is  one  of  the  strangest  creatures 
I  ever  had  the  honor  to  know.  However,  perlraps  he  has 
visited  the  Continent  to  learn  politeness,  and  I  think  he  may 
chance  to  learn  a  lesson  of  love  also.  Not  at  all  unlikely, 
by  the  praises  he  bestows  in  his  letters  on  a  certain  Louisa 
Manvers." 

In  vain  Caroline  struggled  to  prevent  a  start,  or  her  cheek 
from  suddenly  paling.  '•  Louisa  Manvers,"  she  repeated,  al- 
most unconsciously. 

"  Yes,  do  you  know  her  1  by  the  bye,  she  must  be  some  dis 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  133 

tant  connection  of  yours,  I  fancy ;  her  brother  is  Lord  Del« 
mont,  he  inherited  the  title  from  your  maternal  grandfather. 
St.  Eval  and  Delmont  were  college  chums,  and,  though  they 
are  parted,  retain  all  the  romantic  enthusiasm  of  friendship. 
After  spending  some  little  time  with  your  friends  I  believe,  at 
Geneva,  the  lone  pilgrim  bent  his  steps  to  Lago  Guardia,  and 
there  he  has  remained,  wooing  nature  with  his  friend,  and  in 
all  probability  playing  thedtvoug  to  Miss  Manvers.  We  shall 
find  Lord  St.  Eval  bringing  home  a  fair  Italian  bride,  before 
we  are  aware  of  it ;  that  is  to  cay,  if  she  will  have  the  courage 
to  pore  through  the  deep  and  hidden  treasures  of  tnis  volume, 
till  she  comes  to  the  magic  word  heart. 

He  might  have  continued,  for  Caroline,  buried  in  her  own 
miserable  thoughts,  interrupted  him  not.  Had  she  encounter- 
ed the  eyes  of  Lord  Henry,  as  they  were  fixed  full  of  mischief 
upon  her,  she  might  have  made  some  effort  to  rouse  herself, 
but  as  it  was.  she  felt  relieved  and  glad  when  their  tete-a-tete 
was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  merry  group,  just  re- 
turned in  the  highest  spirits  from  exploring  a  thick  and  mazy 
wood  in  the  vicinity  of  the  extensive  grounds. 

"  Good  news  for  all,"  exclaimed  the  Duke  of  Rothbury,  en- 
tering directly  after  :  "  we  are  to  have  another  guest  to-day,  to 
keep  us  all  alive." 

••  Who — who  ?"  was  reiterated  by  many  voices,  with  some- 
what of  the  noisy  mirth  of  children. 

"  No  less  a  person  than  Viscount  Alphingham."  An  ex- 
clamation of  pleasure  passed  through  the  giddy  crowd,  but 
there  was  an  expression  in  the  countenance  of  the  Dnchess, 
who  had  also  entered  from  a  drive,  which,  to  Caroline's  quick- 
ly awakened  fancy,  appeared  contrary  to  the  general  emotion. 
';  He  is  engaged  as  Sir  Walter  Courtenay's  guest,  so  I  cannot 
claim  him  as  mine,"  the  Duke  continued  ;  "  but  that  does  not 
much  signify.  Sir  Walter  is  here  every  day,  and  Alphing- 
ham will  of  course  accompany  him.  He  is  the  best  fellow  I 
know." 

"  And  this  is  the  man  papa,  for  no  reason  whatever,  save 
from  Percy's  ill-natured  opinion,  has  desired  me  to  slight,  to 
behave  in  a  manner  that,  contrasted  with  former  notice,  must 
be  madness  itself;  cruelty  to  him.  after  what  has  passed  between 
us,  and  misery  to  me.  Surely,  in  such  a  case  as  this  I  am  not 
compelled  to  obey.  When  the  general  voice  proclaims  him 
other  than  they  believe,  am  I  to  regard  what  is  in  itself  a 
mystery?  If  Percy  had  good  reasons  for  writing  against  him 


136  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

to  papa,  for  I  am  sure  he  must  have  done  so,  why  did  he  not 
explain  them,  instead  of  treating  me  thus  like  a  child,  and 
standing  forward  as  his  accuser,  when  the  whole  world  extols 
him  ?  Why  are  the  dearest  wishes  of  my  heart  to  be  destroy- 
ed merely  by  caprice?  Percy  ever  tried,  even  in  child- 
hood, to  bid  me  to  look  up  to  him,  and  acknowledge  his 
power,  and'  thus  he  would  prove  it,  but  he  will  find  him- 
self mistaken.  When  papa  permits  his  judgment  to  be  blinded 
by  the  insinuations  of  a  mere  boy,  I  no  longer  consider  myself 
bound  to  obey  him." 

Such  was  the  tenor  of  Caroline's  thoughts  when  alone,  in 
the  short  interval,  ere  she  descended  to  dinner — there  was  no 
ray  of  happiness ;  her  heart  had  that  day  received  a  wound. 
nor  could  she  derive  comfort  even  from  the  knowledge  that 
Lord  Alphingham  was  expected.  She  would  not  permit  her- 
self to  think  on  Lord  Henry's  conversation.  What  was  it  to 
her  if  St.  Eval  married  Louisa  Manvers  ?  then  studiously  she 
thought  only  on  the  Viscount,  and 'the  situation  with  regard 
to  him  in  which  she  was  placed,  till  her  head  ach^d  with  the 
intensity  of  its  reflections. 

On  entering  the  drawing-room  she  found,  as  she  had  anti- 
cipated, Lord  Alphingham  the  centre  of  a  brilliant  coterie,  and 
for  the  space  of  a  minute  her  heart  throbbed  and  her  cheek 
flushed.  He  bowed  respectfully  as  she  appeared,  but  with 
distant  courtesy  ;  yet  she  fancied  the  flow  of  his  eloquence  was 
for  a  moment  arrested,  and  his  glance,  subdued  yet  so  mourn- 
fully beseeching,  spoke  volumes.  Neither  at  dinner  nor  du- 
ring the  whole  of  that  evening  did  he  pay  her  more  than  ordi- 
nary attention  ;  scarcely  that.  But  those  silent  signals  of  in- 
telligence had  even  greater  power  than  words  ;  for  they  flat- 
tered her  self-love,  by  clearly  proving,  that  courted,  admired, 
as  she  could  not  but  feel  he  was  by  all  around  him,  his  noble 
hostess  perhaps  excepted,  yet  all' was  as  nothing,  now  that  her 
favor -had  been  so  strangely  and  suddenly  withdrawn.  His 
tone,  his  manner,  as  he  presented  to  her  a  note  from  Annie,  of 
which  he  had  been  the  bearer,  strengthened  this  illusion ;  and 
Caroline  as  she  retired  to  rest,  felt  more  and  more  convinced 
they  were  indeed  mutually  and  devotedly  attached,  and  that 
her  obedience  to  her  parents  could  not  weigh  against  the  duty 
she  owed  herself,  the  love  he  had  evinced  for  her.  Annie's 
note  strengthened  this  determination. 

li  I  give  you  joy,  my  dear  Caroline,"  she  wrote,  "  on  tha 
opportunity  you  will  now  enjoy  of  receiving  Lord  Alphing- 


THE  MOTHERS  RECOMPENSE.  137 

ham's  attentions,  undisturbed  by  any  of  those  wayward  fancies 
which  have  lately  so  destroyed  your  peace.  Do  not,  for  heav- 
en's sake,  by  squeamish  notions  of  filial  obedience  and  dutiful 
conduct — which  I  do  assure  you  have  been  very  long  out  of 
date — destroy  your  own  happiness.  When  parents  cease  to 
care  for  the  true  welfare  and  felicity  of  their  children,  it  be- 
comes our  positive  duty  to  care  for  them  ourselves.  Mr. 
Hamilton  has  given  you  no  reason  for  his  command  to  with- 
draw yourself  from  the  attentions  of  Lord  Alphingham;  and 
surely  that  is  the  clearest  imaginable  proof  that  he  really 
has  none  to  give,  and  that  it  is  merely  to  gratify  his  own 
unjust  displeasure  at  your  rejection  of  St.  Eval,  as  if  in  such 
matters  you  had  not  an  undoubted  right  to  decide  for  yourself. 
lie  cannot  suppose  that  you  will  now  be  contented  with  that 
which  completely  crosses  your  own  wishes,  merely  because  he 
desires  it.  That  was  all  very  well  in  your  childhood,  but  at 
present,  when  your  own  reason  must  be  satisfied,  he  has  no 
right  to  expect  obedience.  The  whole  conduct  of-  your 
parents,  you  have  owned  to  me  yourself,  has  been  lately  such 
as  to  alienate  your  affection  and  confidence.  They  hold  your 
•will  enchained  my  poor  friend;  and  if  you  have  not  the  spirit 
to  break  it.  now  a  fair  opportunity  occurs,  forgive  me,  if  I  say 
I  can  no  longer  offer  you  consolation.  Lord  Alphingham 
loves  you,  and  long  ere  this,  had  it  not  been  for  your  mother's 
extraordinary  conduct,  would  have  proposed,  and  you  might 
have  been  now  a  plighted  bride,  or  still  happier  wife.  I 
much  doubt,  by  a  few  hints  he  dropped,  if  his  late  departure 
from  town  was  not  occasioned  by  Mr.  Hamilton's  positive  re- 
fusal to  sanction  his  addresses  to  you.  If  he  has  demanded 
your  hand,  and  been  rejected  without  your  knowledge,  your 
father  and  mother  have  treated  you  with  much  confidence  and 
affection,  have  they  not?  Can  they,  dare  they  expect  to 
receive  yours,  when  such  is  the  case?  Is  it  not  a  clear  proof 
your  happiness  is  not  to  be  consulted  in  any  marriage  you 
may  form  ?  It  is  ridiculous  to  imagine  that  your  mother 
has  not  penetrated,  in  some  degree,  your  feelings  for 
Alphingham,  though  perhaps  not  to  their  extent;  and  not 
approving  of  it,  for  no  reason  whatever,  she  desires  you  to 
shuu  his  society.  Your  father  refuses  a  most  honorable  offer. 
without  even  consulting  the  person  principally  concerned. — • 
Caroline,  my  dearest  friend,  do  not  permit  your  noble 
spirit  to  be  thus  bowed  down.  Whatever  alternative  Lord 
Alphingham  may  propose  becomes  lawful,  when  you  arc  thus 


138  .    THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

cruelly  persecuted.  Many  secret  marriages  are  happier 
very  much  happier,  than  those  for  which  the  consent  of 
parents  have  been  obtained.  They  think  only  of  ambition, 
interest;  how  can  we  expect  them  to  enter  into  the  warmth 
of  youthful  feelings?  Do  not  be  frightened  at  my  words,  but 
give  them  a  calm,  just  deliberation.  You  have  permitted 
your  love  for  him  to  be  discovered ;  it  becomes  your  duty  to 
prove  it  still  more  clearly." 

Such  were  the  principal  contents  of  Annie's  letter,  more 
than  sufficient  to  confirm  Caroline's  already  half-adopted  reso- 
lution, and  convince  her  wavering  judgment  that  obedience 
to  her  parents  was  now  no  longer  a  duty  ;  their  unjust  harsh- 
ness had  alienated  her  from  them,  and  she  must  stand  forth 
and  act  alone  Conscience  loudly  called  on  her  to  desist ;  that 
she  was  deserting  the  plain  path,  and  entering  the  labyrinth 
of  deceit,  but  the  words  of  Annie  were  before  her.  Again 
and  again  they  were  read,  till  every  word  became  engraved 
within  her,  and  the  spirit  they  breathed  thickened  the  film  be- 
fore her  eyes,  and  deafened  her  ear  to  every  loudly-whispered 
reproach.  Yet  in  silence  and  solitude  that  still  small  voice, 
conscience,  arose  and  left  its  pang,  although  on  the  instant 
banished. 

A  few  days  passed,  and  the  conduct  of  the  Viscount  to 
Caroline  continued  the  same  as  it  had  been  the  first  night. 
Publicly  distant,  secretly  and  silently  beseeching,  with  an  elo- 
quence few  could  have  resisted.  There  was  a  grand  fete  and 
dfjeiiner  at  Airslie.  which  was  pronounced  by  the  connoisseurs 
in  such  things  to  be  the  most  rechercht  of  the  season.  But 
few,  comparatively  speaking,  were  the  guests,  though  some 
had  ventured  to  travel  twenty  miles  for  the  purpose ;  yet  all 
was  elegant.  The  day  was  lovely,  and  with  the  bright  sun- 
shine and  cloudless  sky,  added  new  charms  to  this  fairy  land  ; 
for  so,  by  the  tasteful  arrangement  of  gorgeous  tents,  spark- 
ling fountains,  exotic  shrubs,  and  flowers  of  every  form  and 
shade,  the  coup  d'ceil  might  have  been  termed.  Musicians  were 
stationed  in  various  parts  of  the  grounds.  The  dance  was  en- 
joyed with  spirit  on  the  greensward,  when  the  heat  of  the  sun 
had  subsided  into  the  advancing  twilight ;  and  the  picturesque 
groups,  the  chaste  and  elegant  costumes  scattered  about,  inter- 
mixed with  the  beauties  of  inanimate  nature,  added  life  and 
epirit  to  the  picture. 

It  was  an  exciting  and  yet  a  soothing  scene.  Some  minds, 
untouched  by  care,  would  here  have  revelled  in  unchecked 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  139 

gladness.  In  others,  it  might  have  been  productive  of  that 
soothing  melancholy,  which,  from  its  very  sweetness,  we  en- 
courage till  it  becomes  pain:  such  was  the  case  with  Caroline. 
Her  spirits,  buoyed  up  at  first  with  the  hope  and  expectation 
tliat  here  at  least  Lord  Alphingham  might  resume  bis  atten- 
tions unremarked,  she  had  been  excited  to  unwonted  gaiety; 
but  as  the  hours  wore  on,  and  he  approached  her  not,  that  ex- 
citement faded  into  melancholy  and  doubt.  Not  even  had  the 
usual  signals  of  intelligence  passed  between  them,  for  he  had 
been  sedulously  devoting  himself  to  almost  every  beautiful 
girl  in  the  gardens.  Jealousy  for  a  moment  took  possession 
of  her  mind,  but  that  very  quickly  gave  way  to  indignation 
agaii.st  her  father. 

••  If  he  has  been  treated  as  Annie  tells  me,  if  his  proposals 
for*me  have  been  rejected,"  she  thought,  "  how  can  I  expect  or 
hope  that  he  will  continue  his  addresses  ?  He  knows  not  but 
that  I  have  been  consulted ;  and  is  my  happiness  to  be  over- 
thrown, rudely  cast  aside,  by  the  insinuations  of  a  boy?"  and 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  burst  into  tears :  the 
scene,  the  time,  the  faint  sound  of  the  distant  music,  encour- 
aged these  feelings,  and  heightened  despondency.  Day  was 
darkening  around  her.  aided  by  the  sombre  shade  of  the  gigan- 
tic trees,  which  formed  a  grove  where  she  sat ;  and  the  music 
borne  along  at  intervals  sounded  unusually  mournful.  A 
heavy  sigh  near  her  aroused  her  from  her  painful  trance,  and 
starting,  she  beheld  the  object  of  her  thoughts  standing  by  her 
side.  .His  speaking  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  with  a  glance  not 
the  most  obtuse  imagination  could  have  misinterpreted,  and 
tlie  whole  expression  of  his  peculiarly  handsome  features  be- 
trayed the  most  eloquent  and  pleading  sympathy. 

u  Oh,  that  it  might  be  mine,  the  blessed  privilege  of  en- 
deavoring to  soothe  or  to  relieve  this  grief?"  he  passionately 
exclaimed,  as  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  respect  he  ventured 
to  take  her  hand.  ';  I  had  indulged  in  predlmptuous  hopes. 
I  had  ventured  to  read  the  flattering  notice  which  I  ever  re- 
ceived from  you  as  a  confirmation  of  my  wishes,  and  I  indulged 
in  fondly-cherished  visions  that  ere  this  I  should  indeed  have 
had  a  right,  a  holy  right,  to  soothe  your  every  grief  and  share 
in  every  joy.  I  thought  wrong ;  your  flattering  notice  must 
have  been  but  the  impulse  of  your  kind  heart,  pitying  what 
you  could  not  fail  to  behold  ;  and  yet,  oh,  Miss  Hamilton,  that 
very  demonstration  of  your  gentle  nature  has  increased  my 
misery ;  it  has  bade  me  love,  nay.  adore  you.  I  blame  you  not. 


140  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

I  have  been  presumptuous — mad.  I  had  no  right  to  Qxpcct  so 
much  happiness.  My  proposals  were  refused.  I  was  told 
your  conduct  must  have  made  it  evident  that  I  was  not  pleas- 
ing to  you.  I  fled  from  your  presence,  but  I  could  not  rest 
alone.  Again,  like  a  mad  fool,  I  have  plunged  myself  in  the 
centre  of  fascination.  I  could  not  exist  without  the  sound  of 
your  voice;  though  me  it  might  never  more  address.  I  could 
not  live  without  glancing  on  your  expressive  eyes,  your  elo- 
quent smile,  though  on  me  neither  more  might  beam.  I  ain 
here,  I  feel  my  folly,  but  I  cannot  tear  myself  away.  Ca-o- 
line,  adorable  Caroline  !"  he  continued,  with  well-practiced 
passion,  "  only  speak,  command  me  ;  in  what  way  can  I  relievo 
the  grief  in  which  I  see  you  plunged  ?  Give  me  at  least  tho 
gratification  of  feeling  I  have  been  of  service  to  you ;  that  I 
have  done  somewhat  for  your  happiness,  though  by  you  mine 
has  fled  for  ever  " 

Rapidly  yet  eloquently  had  he  spoken,  and  Caroline  vainly 
struggled  with  herself  to  interrupt  him.  He  believed  she  had 
rejected  him.  and  in  that  moment  she  contrasted  his  present 
conduct  with  that  of  Lord  St.  Eval,  under  the  same  circum- 
stances, and  surely  she  could  doubt  no  longer  which  loved  her 
best.  She  had  not  seen  the  secret  agony  of  the  one — his  proud 
and  noble  heart  concealed  it ;  but  Alphingham — when  such 
devoted  love  was  offered  her,  would  she  condemn  it  to  misery, 
and  herself  to  everlasting  reproach,  if  not  to  equal  woe  ? 

"  You  are  mistaken,  my  Lord,"  she  said,  proudly,  after  a 
severe  struggle  with  herself.  "  Lay  not  to  my  charge  the  loss 
of  your  happiness.  I  was  not  aware  till  this  instant  that  it 
depended — "  She  stopped  abruptly,  for  the  natural  modesty 
of  her  disposition  prevented  more,  indignant  as  she  was  at  the 
confirmation  of  Annie's  suspicions. 

Lord  Alphingham  saw  his  advantage,  and  pursued  it. 

"  How !"  he  exclaimed  in  an  accent  of  astonishment  and 
ecstacy  well  comWned.  "  Have  you  too  been  deceived,  and  my 
proposals  rejected  without  having  been  laid  before  you  ?  Can 
it  be  possible  ?  Oh,  speak  again,  my  beloved  Caroline  !  tell 
me  I  have  not  been  too  presuming — that  I  may  hope  that  my 
long-cherished  visions  are  not  false.  You  will  not,  oh,  you 
will  not  condemn  me  to  misery — you  will  not  reject  my  heart, 
and  send  me  despairing  from  your  feet.  Caroline,  my  beloved, 
my  beautiful !  say  that  you  will  be  merciful— say  that  you 
love  me — that  I  love  not  alone ;  oh,  say,  promise  me  you  will 
be  mine,  and.  come  what  will,  we  shall  be  happy." ' 


THE  MOTHER'S  REco:,irE\s».  Hi 

She  heard,  and  her  heart  throbbed  and  her  brain  reeled ; 
in  the  infatuation  of  that  moment,  all.  all  was  forgotten  savo 
the  persuasions  of  Annie,  his  pleading  eloquence,  the  wild 
impulse  of  her  own  blinded  fancy ;  the  fatal  promise  passed 
her  lips — she  was  pledged  to  be  his  own.  A  few  minutes  she 
listened  to  his  impassioned  thanks,  his  words  of  devoted  love, 
then  suddenly  starting  back — 

';  My  father  1"  she  exclaimed,  and  burst  into  a  passionate 
flood  of  tears. 

"Nay,  weep  not.  my  beloved,  my  own!  let  not  a  mere 
shadow,  for  such  in  this  instance  is  duty,  alloy  the  felicity  that 
will  be  ours.  His  consent  will  in  time  be  given;  fear  not, 
when  he  sees  you  happy,  when  he  sees  my  only  care,  my  every 
thought  is  for  your  welfare,  that  his  forgiveness  for  involuntary 
disobedience  will  be  granted,  and  his  unjust  and  cruel  preju- 
dices against  me  will  pass  away,  for  he  will  find  they  were 
indeed  but  fancy ;  and  if  he  continues  obdurate,  oh,  how 
rejoiced  I  shall  be  to  have  withdrawn  my  Caroline  from  his 
stern  guardianship.  Already  has  he  deceived  you;  and  can 
he  then  expect  implicit  obedience  to  unjust  and  unfounded 
commands  on  your  part?  Cheer  up,  my  best  love,  fear  not; 
trust  to  my  affection,  and  all  will  be  well." 

But  still  she  wept,  even  though  Lord  Alphingham  continued 
this  strain  of  consolation  for  some  little  time  longer.  Fearing 
at  length  to  attract  notice  by  her  prolonged  absence,  sho 
roused  herself,  and  breaking  from  her  triumphant  lover,  re- 
mained for  a  few  minutes  alone,  endeavoring,  but  vainly,  to 
recover  that  happiness  which,  when  she  had  looked  to  an  union 
with  the  Viscount,  had  promised  to  dawn  around  her.  She 
saw  it  not;  there  was  a  dark,  heavy,  threatening  cloud  over- 
hanging her  mind,  which  no  efforts  could  dispel.  She  felt,  as 
she  rejoined  the  glittering  circle,  the  eye  of  the  Duchess  was 
fixed  with  startling  earnestness  upon  her,  and  she  shrunk  from 
that  severe  look,  as  if  indeed  it  could  penetrate  her  soul  and 
condemn  the  past.  Why  did  not  enjoyment  return  ?  Why 
was  she  not  happy  when  in  the  centre  of  a  scene  like  this? 
She  knew  not,  and  struggled  to  be  gay  and  animated  as  usual ; 
but  she  felt  as  if  each  effort  failed,  and  drew  upon  her  the 
attention  of  those  near  her.  and  rejoiced  was  she  indeed  when 
the  festive  hours  had  fled  and  she  was  alone.  She  strove  to 
compose  her  troubled  thoughts  to  prayer,  but  no  words  came 
to  her  aid,  and  throwing  hersef  on  her  bed,  she  wept  for  many 
weary  hours.  She  could  not  have  told  why  she  thus  wept ; 


142  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

she  only  knew  that  she  was  wretched,  that  the  light-heartedncss 
once  so  peculiarly  her  own  had  fled,  it  seemed,  for  ever,  and 
she  shrunk  almost  in  loathing  from  the  hour  when  she  should 
nieet  Lord  Alphingham  again;  and  when  it  came,  even  his 
presence  cheered  her  not.  He  soothed,  even  gently  reproached 
but  as  he  did  so  there  was  somewhat  in  his  eye  she  had  never 
seen  before,  and  which  struck  terror.  Subdued  as  it  was,  it 
told  of  passions  from  which  she  had  believed  him  exempt,  and 
added  additional  pain  to  her  distress.  Noticing  what  she 
tormed  the  indisposition  of  her  young  friend,  the  Duchess 
kindly  advised  her  to  remain  quiet,  nor  join  the  gay  party,' 
till  it  had  passed  away ;  but  as  she  cpoke,  Caroline  observed 
the  severe  and  scrutinizing  glance  of  the  Duchess  again  fixed 
upon  her,  and  contrary  to  her  advice,  appeared  as  usual  at 
dinner. 

Days  passed,  and  Lord  Alphingham's  plan  was  matured, 
and  submitted  to  Caroline's  sanction.  A  fete,  similar  to  that 
given  by  the  Duchess,  only  commencing  at  a  later  hour,  to 
permit  a  superb  display  of  fireworks  on  the  grounds,  was  to  be 
given  by  a  neighboring  nobleman,  to  which  all  the  members  of 
the  Duchess's  party  were  invited.  The  villa  was  some  few 
miles  off,  and  they  were  to  leave  Airslie  at  half-past  eight. 
That  day  Caroline  was  to  feign  indisposition,  and  remain  un- 
disturbed at  home ;  at  ten  Lord  Alphingham  would  dispatch  a 
trusty  servant,  well  disguised,  with  a  note,  apparently  from 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  requesting  her  daughter's  immediate  return, 
as  she  had  been  taken  suddenly  and  dangerously  ill.  This 
note  was,  of  course,  designed  to  impose  upon  any  member  of 
the jKirty  who  might,  by  some  mischance,  remain  at  home,  and 
be  circulated  among  the  servants  to  account  for  her  sudden 
departure.  The  carriage,  said  to  be  Mr.  Hamilton's,  waited 
for  her ;  Lord  Alphingham  was  to  meet  it  at  some  five  miles 
off;  but  once  within  it,  once  safe  from  Airslie,  the  rest  was 
easy. 

Caroline  heard,  and  an  inward  shuddering  crept  chilly 
through  her  frame.  Faintly  and  briefly  she  agreed  to  all  he 
EO  eloquently  and  persuasively  pleaded,  and  instantly  left  him. 

"Will  she  be  weak  enough  now  to  waver  ?"  thought  Al- 
phingham. 'l  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  is  not  worthy  of  all  this 
trouble,  there  is  no  spirit  in  her ;  yet  she  is  so  beautiful,  it 
will  suit  me  well  to  introduce  such  a  lovely  creature  as  my 
bride  next  season,  and  gratify  my  vengeance  on  Mr.  Hamilton 
for  his  unceremonious  refusal,  and  if  f  get  tired  of  her.  if  then 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  143 

tears  and  pale  cheeks  continue,  why,  thank  heaven,  no  chains 
with  me  are  binding.  That  early  folly  of  mine  was  not  so 
useless  as  it  seemed  ;  I  may  act  as  I  please,  and  if  your 
daughter  sickens  or  offends  me,  Mr.  Hamilton  ;  as  you  have 
done,  you  may  well  dread  my  vengeance ;  it  will  fall  upon  you 
both,  and  I  unscathed  will  seek  other  lands  and  fairer  beauties, 
as  1  have  already  done."  His  countenance  had  darkened 
during  this  speech,  but  at  its  close  it  became  clear  again,  and, 
with  a  careless  whistle  of  unconcern,  he  sauntered  away. 

And  was  it  to  this  man  that  the  cherished  child  of  so  much 
anxiety  was  about  to  sacrifice  herself.  With  him  and  for  him, 
she.  who  had  once  been  the  soul  of  truth  and  honor,  had  con- 
sented to  leave  the  guardianship  of  her  father,  and  break  the 
sacred  links  of  nature.  Alas !  though  her  very  spirit  now 
revolted,  she  had  gone  too  far.  How  could  she.  how  dared 
she  draw  back  ?  and  yet  one  effort  she  would  ^nake.  She 
would  implore  him  to  permit  her  to  confess  all  to  h->r  parents; 
she  was  convinced,  did  they  know  how  much  her  happiness 
depended  on  her  union  with  him,  they  would  consent,  and 
with  their  blessing  hallow  their  marriage.  Happiness — Caro- 
line shuddered ;  the  wild  excitement  of  secret  love  had  de- 
parted. She  knew  she  was  beloved,  she  had  given  her  pro- 
mise, yet  she  was  not  happy ;  and  could  she  then  expect  to  be 
when  irrevocably  his  own  ?  Her  brain  reeled  beneath  the  be- 
wildering chaos  of  her  thoughts  ;  but  she  followed  up  her  re- 
solution, and  implored  him  as  she  had  intended.  Lord  A  I- 
phingham  heard  with  a  dark  and  frowning  brow. 

"  And  what  becomes  of  your  kind  brother's  just  accusa- 
tions ?"  demanded  the  Viscount,  with  a  very  evident  and  con- 
temptuous sneer. 

"  Defend  yourself,  and  papa  will  be  convinced  they  arc  un- 
founded." was  her  reply.  But  she  gazed  on  his  countenance, 
and  terrified  at  its  expression  ;  for  the  first  time  the  thought 
flashed  across  her  mind,  could  there  indeed  be  any  real  cause 
for  Percy's  warning ;  and  more  and  more  earnestly  did  she 
beseech  him  to  say  she  might  implore  her  father's  sanction. 
'•  Only  let  me  confide  in  papa  and  mamma,  let  me  try  and  con- 
vince them  they  are  mistaken,  and  Percy  too  must  be  in  error.'' 

The  Viscount  for  some  little  time  endeavored  mildly  to  confute 
her  arguments,  and  convince  her  that  in  doing  so.  she  was  only 
forming  her  own  misery;  but  still  she  pleaded,  and  ungovcrn- 
ed  fury  at  length  burst  forth.  He  had  been  too  long  the  vic- 
tim of  passions  always  to  keep  them  in  bounds,  even  when 


144  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE 

most  required  ;  and  for  a  few  minutes  they  spurned  restriint, 
and  Caroline  beheld  him  as  he  was,  and  saw  4n  dim  perspec 
tive  the  blackened  future.  She  would  have  broken  from  him, 
but  he  detained  her,  and  with  a  rapid  transition  of  mood 
humbled  himself  before  her,  and  with  impassioned  fervor  and 
deep  contrition  besought  her  forgiveness,  her  pity.  It  was  his 
fervid  love,  his  fear  of  losing  her,  that  bade  him  thus  forget 
himself,  and  he  conjured  her  not  to  condemn  him  to  everlast- 
ing misery ;  that  he  was  wretched  enough  already  at  having 
caused  her  one  moment's  pain.  He  spoke,  and  his  softened 
voice,  his  imploring  eyes,  his  protestations  of  unalterable  love 
and  gratitude,  if  she  would  but  trust  to  his  affections,  and  be 
his  own  as  he  proposed,  had  in  a  degree  their  effect.  She  was 
convinced  it  would  only  bring  forth  misery  now  to  implore  the 
sanction  and  blessing  of  her  parents,  and  promised  to  resign  all 
idea  of  so  doing.  But  vainly  she  strove  to  forget  that  burst 
of  ungoverned  passion  she  had  witnessed  ;  it  haunted  her  sleep- 
ing and  waking  thoughts,  and  his  protestations  of  devoted  love 
were  dimmed  beside  it,  they  shared  its  blackened  hue. 

The  appointed  day  came,  and  the  Duchess,  without  question 
or  remark,  accepted  Caroline's  excuse  for  not  accompanying  her 
and  her  friends  to  the  expected  fete.  The  heavy  eyes  and 
pale  cheeks  of  the  misguided  girl  were  more  than  sufficient  ex- 
o'jse  :  she  even  seconded  Caroline  in  refusing  the  kind  offer  of 
Lady  Annie  and  Lady  Lucy  Melville  to  remain  with  her.  She 
said  she  preferred  being  quite  alone,  as  she  was  no  companion 
for  any  one,  and  it  appeared  as  if  not  even  that  obstacle  would 
arise  to  prevent  her  flight. 

The  hours  wore  on  ;  the  noble  guests  could  speak  of  no- 
thing but  the  anticipated  fete  and  its  attendant  pleasures, 
while  they  wiled  away  the  intervening  hours  in  the  library,  the 
music-room,  the  garden,  wherever  th'eir  taste  dictated,  for  free- 
dom was  ever  the  password  of  Airslie ;  but  Caroline  joined 
them  not.  It  was  the  second  day  that  she  had  not  seen  the 
Viscount ;  for,  fearing  to  attract  notice,  he  had  never  made  his 
visits  unusually  frequent,  and  well  versed  in  intrigue,  he  had 
carried  on  his  intercourse  with  Caroline  in  impenetrable  se- 
crecy. More  than  once  in  those  lonely  hours  did  she  feel  as 
if  her  brain  reeled,  and  become  confused,  for  she  could  not 
banish  thought.  She  had  that  morning  received  letters  from 
home,  and  in  her  present  mood  each  line  breathed  affection, 
\\hich  her  now  awakened  conscience  told  her  was  undeserved. 
Nature  and  reason  had  resumed  their  sway,  as  if  to  add  their 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  145 

tortures  to  the  anguish  of  those  hours.  The  misery  which  had 
been  her  portion,  since  her  acceptance  of  Lord  Alphingham, 
had  slowly  but  surely  drawn  the  blinding  film  from  her  eyes. 
The  light  of  reason  had  broke  upon  them  with  a  lustre  that 
would  no  more  be  darkened.  At  the  same  moment  that  she 
knew  she  did  not  love  Lord  Alphingham,  her  conduct  to  her 
parents,  to  St.  Eval.  appeared  in  their  true  colors.  Yes.!  this 
was  no  fancy,  she  had  been  the  victim  of  infatuation,  of  excite- 
ment;  but  clearer  and  clearer  dawned  the  truth.  She  wag 
sacrificing  herself  to  one  whom  she  did  not  love,  whom  she  had 
never  loved,  with  whom  her  life  would  be  a  dreary  waste;  and 
for  this  was  she  about  to  break  the  ties  of  nature,  fly  from  her 
parents,  perhaps  draw  down  upon  her  head  their  curse,  or  what 
she  now  felt  would  be  worse,  much  worse,  wring  that  mother's 
heart  with  anguish,  whose  conduct,  now  that  reason  had  re- 
sumed her  tlirone.  she  was  convinced  had  been  ever  guided  by. 
the  dictates  of  affection.  She  recalled  with  vivid  clearness  her 
every  interview  with  Annie,  and  she  saw  with  bitter  self-re- 
proach her  own  blindness  and  folly,  in  thus  sacrificing  her  own 
judgment  to  false  reasoning,  in  withdrawing  her  confidence 
and  affection  from  the  mother  who  had  never  once  deceived  her, 
to  bestow  them  on  one  who  had  played  upon  her  foolish  weak- 
ness, heightened  her  scarcely-dawning  fancy  till  it  became  in- 
fatuation, and  finally  recommended  that  plan  of  conduct  from 
which  Caroline's  whole  soul  revolted.  Why  had  she  dona 
this?  Caroline  felt,  to  bring  down  shame  upon  her  head  and 
suffering  on  her  mother.  Her  parents'  conduct  changed  to- 
wards her — oh  !  had  not  hers  changed  to  them  ?  had  she  not 
acted  from  the  first  of  Annie's  arrival  in  London  as  if  under 
the  influence  of  some  spell  ?  and  now  that  it  was  rudely  broken, 
recollections  of  the  past  mingled  with  and  heightened  her  pre- 
sent sufferings.  Her  childhool.  her  early  youth  rushed  like  a 
torrent  on  her  mind;  faulty  as  they  had  been,  they  were  inno- 
cent and  pure  compared  with  her  present  self.  Then  she  had 
ever  been  actuated  by  truth,  candor,  respectful  love,  affection- 
ate confidence  towards -her  parents;  now  all  had  been  cast 
aside.  If  her  mother's  words  were  true,  and  bitterly  she  felt 
they  wore,  that  her  conduct  to  St.  Eval  had  been  one  continu- 
ed falsehood,  what  would  her  parents  feel  when  her  intercourse 
with  Lord  Alphingham  was  discovered.  Lord  Alphingham — 
she  shuddered  as  his  name  rose  to  her  lips.  Her  heart  yearned 
with  passionate  intensity  towards  her  mother,  to  hear  her 
voice  in  blessing,  to  see  her  beaming  smile,  and  feel  her  kiss 
7 


146  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

of  approbation,  such  as  at  Oakwood  she  had  so  often  received 
she  longed  in  utter  wretchedness  for  them.  That  night  she 
was  wilfully  to  cast  them  off  for  ever,  flee  as  a  criminal  from 
all  she  loved  ;  and  if  she  could  return  home,  confess  all.  would 
that  confiding  love  ever  be  hers  again  ?  She  shrunk  in  trem- 
bling terror  from  her  father's  sternness,  her  mother's  look  of 
woe.  struggling  with  severity,  the  coldness,  the  displeasure  she 
would  excite — on  all  sides  she  beheld  but  misery ;  but  to  fly 
with  Lord  Alphingham,  to  bind  herself  for  ever  with  one, 
whom  every  passing  hour  told  her  she  did  not,  could  not  love 
— oh,  all,  all,  even  death  itself,  were  preferable  to  that !  The 
words  of  her  brother  sounded  incessantly  in  her  ears :  "  If 
you  value  my  sister's  future  peace,  let  her  be  withdrawn  from 
his  society."  How  did  she  know  that  those  words  were  wholly 
without  foundation  1  the  countenance  of  the  Viscount  as  he 
had  alluded  to  them  confirmed  them  to  her  now  awakened  eve. 
Was  she  about  to  wed  herself  to  crime?  She  remembered  the 
perfect  justness,  the  unwavering  charity  of  her  father,  and  in 
those  softened  moments  she  felt  assured  he  would  not  have 
condemned  him  without  good  cause.  Why,  oh,  why  had  she 
thus  committed  herself ?  where  was  she  to  turn  for  succor? 
where  look  for  aid  to  guard  from  her  the  fate  she  had  woven 
for  herself?  Where,  in  her  childish  faults,  had  her  mother 
taught  her  to  seek  for  assistance  and  forgiveness?  Dare  she 
address  her  Maker,  the  God  whom,  in  those  months  of  infatu- 
ated blindness,  she  had  deserted  ;  Him,  whom  her  deception 
towards  her  parents,  had  offended,  for  she  had  trampled  on 
His  holy  laws,  she  had  honored  them  not. 

The  hour  of  seven  chimed  ;  three  hours  more,  and  her  fate 
was  irrevocably  sealed — the  God  of  her  youth  profaned  ;  for 
could  she  ever  address  Him  again  when  the  wife  of  Alphing- 
ham?  from  whose  lips  no  word  of  religion  ever  cam-e.  whose 
most  simple  action  had  lately  evinced  contempt  for  its  forms 
and  restrictions.  The  beloved  guardians  of  her  infant  years, 
the  tender  friends  of  her  youth  insulted,  lowered  by  her  con- 
duct in  the  estimation  of  the  world,  lia-ble  to  reproach  ;  their 
very  devotion  for  so  many  years  to  their  children  condemned, 
ridiculed.  An  inseparable  bar  placed  between  her  and  the 
hand-in-band  companions  of  her  youth  ;  never  again  should 
fihe  kneel  with  them  around  their  parents,  and  with  them  share 
the  fond  impressive  blessing.  Oakwood  and  its  attendant  in- 
nocence and  joys,  had  they  passed  away  forever?  She  thought 
un  the  anguish  that  had  been  her  mother's,  when  in  her  child' 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  147 

hood  she  had  sinned,  and  what  was  she  now  about  to  inflict1? 
She  saw  her  bowed  down  in  the  depth  of  misery ;  she  heard 
her  agonized  prayer  for  mercy  on  her  child. 

"  Saviour  of  my  mother,  for  her  sake,  have  mercy  on  her  un- 
worthy child  !  oh,  save  me  from  mysel-f,  restore  me  to  my  mo- 
ther !"  and  sinking  on  her  knees,  the  wretched  girl  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  minutes,  which  to  her  appeared  like 
hours,  rolled  on  in  that  wild  burst  of  repentant  and  remorse- 
ful agony. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

"  DEAREST  mother,  this  is  indeed  like  some  of  Oakwood's  hap- 
py hours,"  exclaimed  Emmeline,  that  same  evening,  as  with 
childish  glee  she  had  placed  herself  at  her  mother's  feet,  and 
raised  her  laughing  eyes  to  her  face,  with  an  expression  of 
fond,  confiding  love. 

She  and  Ellen  were  sitting  alone  with  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
Miss  Harcourt  being  engaged  at  a  friend's,  and  Mr.  Hamilton 
having  been  summoned  after  dinner  to  a  private  interview  with 
his  solicitor  on  the  Myrvin  affairs. 

The  lovely  evening  was  slowly  wearing  on  to  twilight,  and 
the  sky,  shadowed  as  it  was  by  the  towering  mansions  of 
Berkeley  Square,  yet  bore  all  the  rich  hues  which  had  attended 
the  repose  of  a  brilliant,  setting  sun.  The  balcony  of  the 
drawing-room  where  they  were  sitting  was  filled  with  flowers, 
and  the  window  being  thrown  widely  open,  the  gentle  breeze 
of  summer  filled  the  room  with  their  sweet  fragrance.  It  was 
that  hour  of  evening  when  even  London  is  somewhat  hushed. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  been  more  at  home  since  Caro- 
line's visit  to  Airslie,  but  yet  not  one  evening  had  so  vividly  re- 
minded Emmeline  of  her  dear  Oakwood  as  the  present;  it  was 
thus  in  twilight  she  had  often  sought  her  mother,  and  given 
vent,  by  a  thousand  little  innocent  devices  to  the  warm  emo- 
tions that  filled  her  heart. 

Ellen  had  been  standing  by  the  flowers,  but  on  hearing  her 
cousin's  exclamation,  she  too  had  established  herself  ou  the 
couch  by  her  aunt,  and  added — 

"  You  are  right,  dear  Emmeline;  it  is  indeed." 

There  was  an  anxiety  on  Mrs.  Hamilton's  heart,  which  sha 
could  not  define ;  but  was  yet  unable  to  resist  the  innocent 
happiness  of  her  young  companions,  and  twining  her  arm  play- 
fully round  Ellen,  she  abandoned  her  other  hand  to  Emmelino 
and  answered — 


148  THE    MOTHER.' S    RECOMPENSE. 

"  I  am  very  glad,  my  dear  children,  that  such  &  simple 
thing  as  my  company  can  afford  you  so  much  pleasure." 

"  It  is  so  very  rare  now  to  have  you  thus  all  alone,  mamma, 
can  it  be  otherwise  than  delight  ?  I  do  not  even  want  papa 
yet,  we  three  make  such  a  comfortable  party." 

"  You  are  exceedingly  polite  to  my  uncle,  Erameline.  I 
have  a  good  mind  to  tell  him  when  he  rejoins  us,"  said  Ellen, 
laughing. 

'•  Do  so,  my  mischievous  cousin,  and  I  shall  get  a  kiss  for 
your  pains.  I  know  where  mamma's  thoughts  are,  though  she 
is  trying  to  be  as  merry  as  we  are ;  she  wants  another  to  make 
this  Oakwood  hour  complete." 

"  I  ought  not  to  wish  for  your  sister,  my  love,  she  is  hap- 
pier where  she  is  than  she  would  be  here,  particularly  to-night, 
for  Lord  D —  gives  a  splendid  fete  at  his  beautiful  villa,  sim- 
ilar to  that  given  by  the  Duchess  ten  days  ago,  at  which  I 
should  think  Caroline  must  have  been  delighted,  though  she 
wrote  but  little  of  it." 

"  There  is  a  tone  in  her  letters,  mamma,  that  tells  me  she 
will  be  as  pleased  as  ourselves  to  be  at  Oakwood  again,  though 
she  may  fancy  fetes,  assemblies,  and  a  long  list  of  et  ceteras, 
are  the  most  delightful  things  in  existence  ;  and  do  you  know, 
mamma,  I  will  not  permit  you  to  say  you  ought  not  to  wish  for 
her,  because  she  is  happier  where  she  is  than  she  would  be 
here ;  it  is  high  treason  in  my  presence  to  say  or  even 
think  so." 

"  I  must  plead  guilty,  then,  my  Emmeline,  and  place  my 
case  in  Ellen's  hands  as  counsel  for  the  defendant,  or  throw 
myself  on  your  mercy." 

"  In  consideration  of  the  peculiar  happiness  of  this  evening, 
I  pronounce  pardon,"  answered  Emmeline,  laughing,  as  she 
kissed  her  mother's  hand. 

"  A  letter  we  received  this  morning  tells  us  of  one  who 
longs  to  behold  us  all  again,  spite  of  the  many  and  varied  pleas- 
ures of  his  exciting  life,  does  it  not,  my  dear  aunt  ?" 

"  It  does  indeed,  my  love.  Our  Edward's  letters  have  been, 
ever  since  he  left  us,  sources  of  consolation  and  delight  to  me, 
though  I  do  excite  my  Ellen's  jealousy  at  the  greater  length 
of  his  letters  to  me  than  of  those  to  her,"  she  added,  smiling. 

"My  brother  knows  that  his  letters  to  you  impart  pleasure 
and  satisfaction,  he  cannot  bestow  greater  happiness  on  me, 
however  short  mine  may  be,"  answered  Ellen,  earnestly  ;  "  and 
when  he  writes  so  fully  to  you  and  so  fondly  to  me,  I  have 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  149 

evcry.reason  to  be  quite  contented ;  his  time  is  not  so  much  at 
his  own  disposal  as  mine  is." 

'•  I  wonder  where  be  can  find  time  to  write  euch  lengthy 
epistles  to  mamma,"  observed  the  smiling  Etumeline.  "  I 
peeped  over  her  shoulder  this  morning  as  she  was  reading,  and 
was  astounded  to  perceive  it  was  written  nearly  as  closely  as 
mine  would  be.  I  wonder  how  he  manages,  sailors  are  said  to 
be  such  bud  correspondents." 

••  Have  you  forgotten  what  I  used  to  repeatedly  to  say  to 
you,  when  you  were  a  lazy  little  girl,  Emmeline,  and  were  ever 
ready  to  escape  disagreeable  tasks,  by  saying  you  were  quite 
sure  you  never  could  succeed — '  Where  there's  a  will  there's 
a  way.' " 

"  Indeed,  I  have  not  forgotten  it,  dear  mamma  J  it  often 
comes  across  me  now.  when  I  am  ready  to  despair;  a/id  so  I 
shall  just  read  it  to  Master  Ned  when  he  returns,  as  a  lecture 
for  not  writing  to  me." 

"  Nay,  Emmeline,  that  would  be  demanding  too  much  from 
our  young  sailor ;  there  is  moderation  in  every  thing,  you 
kuow.i: 

"  Not  in  me,  mamma,"  answered  Emmeline,  laughing. 
';  You  know  I  am  always  in  extremes,  up  in  the  skies  one 
minute,  and  down,  down  on  the  lowest  earth  the  next.  1 
sometimes  wish  I  was  like  Ellen,  always  unruffled,  always  calm 
and  collected.  You  will  go  through  the  world  better  than  I 
shall,  my  quiet  cousin." 

'•  Shall  I?"  replied  Ellen,  faintly  smiling.  But  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton could  perceive  that  which  the  thoughtless  Emmeline 
regarded  not,  a  deep  crimson  staining  appar  ntly  with  pain 
the  pale  fair  face  of  her  niece,  and  she  thought  not  with  her 
daughter. 

"  And  how  much  longer  does  Ned  intend  being  away  from 
us  ?"  demanded  Emmeline,  after  a  long  pause. 

"  He  cannot  give  us  any  idea  yet,"  answered  her  mother  ; 
'•  perhaps  some  time  next  year.  They  were  to  cruise  off  the 
shores  of  South  America  these-  autumnal  months,  and  winter, 
Edward  thinks,  at  Buenos  Ayres.  He  is  pleased  at  this,  as 
he  will  see  so  very  much  more  of  the  New  World  than  he 
expected,  when  he  left  us. ' 

"  What  an  entertaining  companion  he  will  be  when  he  re- 
trrns."  exclaimed  Emmeline. 

u  Or  rather  ought  to  be.  Emmeline,"  remarked  Ellen,  quietly. 

u  Now,  what  an  insinuation  !      Ellen,  you  are  too  bad  to- 


150  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

night,  and  against  your  brother,  of  all  persons  in  the  world, 
It  is  just  like  the  ill  compliment  you  paid  him  on  his  gallantry 
in  saving  the  Syren  and  all  her  crew — absolutely  would  not 
believe  that  your  brother  Edward  and  the  young  hero  of  my 
tale  were  one  and  the  same  person." 

"  I  can  forgive  her  skepticism  then,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
affectionately.  "  The  extraordinary  efforts  you  described  were 
indeed  almost  beyond  credence,  when  known  to  have  been  those 
of  a  lad  but  just  seventeen  ;  but  I  hope  my  Ellen  is  no  longer 
a  skeptic  as  to  the  future  fame  and  honor  of  her  brother,"  she 
added,  kindly  addressing  her  niece. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  not  indulge  in  one-half  the  bright  visions,  the 
fond  hopes  that  will  intrude  themselves  upon  my  mind  for  him," 
exclaimed  Ellen,  with  involuntary  energy. 

"  Why,  Ellen,  are  you  sometimes  a  victim  to  tic  freaks  of 
imagination  as  well  as"  myself?"  asked  her  cousin  laughing. 

"  I  have  frequently  compelled  myself  to  seek  active  em- 
ployment," answered  Ellen,  ''lest  those  hopes  should  be  indeed 
but  fading  visions,  and  my  disappointment  more  painfully 
bitter." 

"  You  do  your  brother  injustice  in  even  fancying  disap- 
pointment," said  her  aunt,  playfully,  "and  I  must  act  as 
defendant  for  the  absent.  I  believe,  say,  and  protest  my  firm 
belief,  that  the  name  of  Edward  Fortescue  will  stand  one  of 
the  highest  in  naval  fame,  both  as  a  commander  and  a  man. 
The  naval  honor  of  my  family  will,  I  feel  assured,  have  a 
worthy  representative  in  my  noble  nephew,  and  I  will  not  have 
one  word  breat'  ed  in  doubt  or  mistrust  on  the  subject." 

"  If  you  thk  k  so.  then  I  may  hope  indeed,"  Ellen  said  with 
earnestness.  fc  A.nd  the  recollection  of  the  past" — 

"Must  heignten  anticipations  for  the  future,  my  dear  girl, 
or  I  must  sentence  them  to  perpetual  banishment.  Condemn 
them  never  to  be  recalled,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hamilton,  still 
more  playfully,  and  then  added — 

"  Emmeline,  have  you  no  wish  to  know  how  the  object  of 
your  kind  sympathy,  poor  Lilla,  parted  from  her  father  and  me 
to-day  ?" 

"  I  quite  forgot  all  about  it,  mamma  ;  this  Oakwood  hour 
has  made  me  so  selfish.  I  thought  of  no  one  but  ourselves,' 
replied  Emmeline.  "  Gratify  my  curiosity  now.  Did  Lady 
Helen  evince  any  sorrow  at  the  separation  ?" 

"  Not  so  much,  as,  for  Lilla's  sake,  I  could  have  wished. 
She  has  been  so  unfortunately  prejudiced  against  her,  both  by 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  151 

Annie  and  Miss  Malison,  that  although  I  am  convinced  she 
loves  her  child,  she  never  will  evince  any  proof  of  it;  and  Lilla'a 
unhappy  temperament  has,  cf  course,  increased , this  prejudice, 
whicli  I  fear  will  require  years  to  remove,  unless  Annie  be 
soon  married,  and  Miss  Malison  removed  from  Lady  Helen's 
establishment.  Then  Lilla's  really  excellent  qualities  will 
quickly  be  made  evident." 

:'  Mr.  Grahame  is  already  convinced  she  is  a  very  different 
girl  to  that  she  has  been  represented,  is  he  not?"  asked  Ellen. 

i;  He  is  ;  and  I  trust,  from  the  awakened  knowledge,  happi- 
ness is  downing  upon  them  both.  I  could  not  see  unmoved 
his  struggle  to  part  with  her  to- Jay,  brief  as  the  separation  will 
be — scarcely  six  short  months." 

"  I  was  quite  sure  Mr.  Grahame  loved  his  children,  though 
Annie  and  Cecil  did  say  so  much  about  his  sternness,"  said 
Emmeline,  somewhat  triumphantly. 

••  Mr.  Grahame's  feelings  are  naturally  the  very  warmest, 
but  disappointment  in  some  of  his  dearest  hopes  has,  in  some 
cases,  unfortunately  caused  him  to  veil  them  ;  I  regret  this, 
both  for  Cecil  and  Lilla's  sake,  as  I  think,  had  he  evinced 
greater  interest  and  affection  for  them  in  their  childish  years, 
they  might  both  have  been  different  in  character." 

"  But  it  is  not  too  late  now  ?" 

11 1  trust  not  for  Lilla ;  but  I  greatly  fear,  from  all  I  have 
heard,  that  Cecil's  character  is  already  formed.  Terrified  at 
his  father's  harshness,  he  has  always  shrunk  from  the  idea  of 
making  him  his  friend,  and  has  associated  only  with  the  young 
men  of  his  mother's  family,  who,  some  few  years  older  thac 
himself,  and  devoted  to  fashion  and  gay  amusements,  are  not 
the  very  best  companions  he  could  have  selected,  but  whose 
near  relationship  seems  to  have  prevented  all  interference  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Grahame.  Cecil  must  now  be  sixteen,  and  I 
fear  no  alteration  in  his  father's  conduct  will  efface  the  im- 
pressions already  received." 

';  But,  changed  as  Mr.  Grahame  is  towards  Lilla,  was  it 
still  necessary  for  her  to  go  to  Mrs.  Douglas  ?  Could  not  her 
reformation  have  been  effected  equally  well  at  home?" 

"  No.  my  love  ;  her  father,  delighted  at  finding  he  had  en- 
gaged her  affections,  and  that  some  of  the  representations  he 
had  heard  were  false,  would  in  all  probability,  have  gone  to 
the  contrary  extreme,  and  indulged  her  as  much,  if  not  more, 
than  he  had  previously  neglected  her.  Lilla  has  very  many 
faults,  which  require  steady  yet  not  harsh  correction,  and 


152  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

which  from  her  earliest  age  domanded  the  greatest  care,' 
being  neglected,  they  have  strengthened  with  her  years.  The 
discipline  she  will  now  be  under  will  at  first  be  irksome,  and 
perhaps  Lilla  may  find  all  I  have  said  in  Mrs.  Douglas's  favor 
very  contrary  to  reality  ;  but  I  have  such  a  good  opinion  of 
her  docility,  when  reasoned  with  kindly,  that  I  do  not  doubt 
all  such  impressions  will  be  effaced  when  she  visits  us  at 
Christmas." 

"  Well,  however  kind  Mrs.  Douglas  may  be,  T  should  not 
like  to  be  in  Lilla's  place,"  observed  Emmeline,  and  then 
added,  with  her  usual  animation,  '•  Ah,  mamma,  how  can  we 
ever  be  sufficiently  grateful  to  you  for  never  sending  us  from 
you  ?  I  might  have  loved  you  very  dearly,  but  I  could  not 
have  looked  upon  you  as  my  best  and  dearest  friend,  as  I  do 
now." 

"  It  is  sufficient  recompense  for  all  my  care  that  you  do 
look  on  me  thus,  my  sweet  child,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
with  involuntary  emotion,  and  she  bent  down  to  impress  a 
kiss  on  Emmeline's  forehead  as  she  spoke,  that  she  might  con- 
ceal an  unusual  tear  which  had  started  to  her  eye,  for  the  un- 
restrained confidence  and  unabated  affection  of  her  younger 
daughter,  while  it  soothed,  yet  rendered  the  conduct  of  Caro- 
line by  its  contrast  more  painful;  and.  almost  unconsciously, 
she  added — 

"  Oh,  that  this  confidence  and  affection  may  never  change, 
never  be  withdrawn." 

"  Change  !"  repeated  Emmeline  and  Ellen  at  the  same 
moment ;  but  they  checked  themselves,  for  they  knew  where 
the  thoughts  of  their  much-loved  relative  had  wandered,  and 
they  felt  she  had  indeed  sufficient  cause  for  all  her  solicitude. 
Recovering  herself  almost  instantly,  Mrs.  Hamilton  resumed 
the  conversation  in  a  more  cheerful  tone,  by  demanding  of 
Emmeliue  if  her  busy  fancy  had  pictured  how  Oakwood  was 
to  look,  on  their  return  to  it  in  a  fortnight's  time. 

"  She  certainly  must  have  done  so."  answered  Ellen,  laugh- 
ing;  ';for  she  has  had  so  many  reveries  over  her  drawing  and 
work  this  week,  that  nothing  less  important  could  have  occa» 
sioned  them." 

Emmeline  shook  her  head  archly,  and  answered  gayly ; 
and  her  dear  old  venerable  home  was  the  engrossing  theme 
of  conversation  till  the  return  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  a  short  time 
afterwards. 

"  Congratulate  me,  all  of  you,"  he  said,  in  a  joyous  tone ; 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  ^          153 

*  my  business  is  proceeding  most  favorably.  Mr.  Myrviu 
Dead  know  nothing  about  it  till  all  is  settled  ;  the  dishonorable 
conduct  of  his  enemies  brought  to  light,  and  himself  reinstated 
in  his  little  domain,  once  more  the  minister  of  Llangwillan. 
Thanks  to  the  able  conduct  of  Mr.  Allan,  all  will  soon  be  made 
clear.  As  soon  as  we  are  at  Oakwood,  Ellen,  you  shall  write 
to  Mr.  Myrvin,  and  invite  him  to  spend  some  little  time  with 
us ;  and  when  he  leaves  us,  I  trust  it  will  be  once  more  for 
Llangwillan  and  its  own  pretty  vicarage." 

"  Dear,  dear  uncle  !"  exclaimed  Ellen,  starting  up  and 
clinging  to  his  arm,  "  oh,  how  can  I  thank  you  for  your  inter- 
ference in  behalf  of  him  who  was  the  first  friend  I  knew  in 
England?  the  consoler  of  my  mother — the" — 

"  The  good  man  who  first  told  us  what  a  troublesome 
charge  I  should  find  in  my  niece,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
playfully. 

i;  I  have  indeed  been  a  trouble  to  you,"  replied  El.  *n,  with 
a  suppressed  yet  heavy  sigh,  and  her  uncle's  haiid  dropped 
from  her  grasp. 

"  Ellen  !"  said  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  at  the  same  instant, 
in  an  accent  of  reproach. 

"Have  I  not?"  she  continued  with  unusual  impetuosity. 
"  Did  I  not  cause  you  misery,  you,  who  from  the  first  moment 
you  knew  me.  loved  me  more  than  I  dese/ved  ?  Did  I  not 
make  both  of  you  ill  in  health  and  wretched  in  mind,  and  yet 
your  kindness  now  is  greatef  than  before  ?  There  is  not  a 
wish — not  a  desire  I  express,  but  is  granted  on  the  instant ; 
and  I — oh,  I  have  no  power  to — to — " 

:'  You  will,  at  least,  have  the  power  of  making  me  seriously 
displeased  if  you  speak  in  this  way  again,  and  thus  turn  my 
sportive  words  to  gloom,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  gravely,  but 
gently  drawing  the  agitated  girl  with  tenderness  to  her. 
'•  Come,  come,  Ellen,  I  will  not  have  Emmeline's  happy  Oak- 
wood  hour  thus  alloyed.  You  may  reward  me  yet  for  all,  and 
one  day,  perhaps,  make  me  your  debtor.  That  may  appear 
very  impossible  now,"  she  added,  smiling,  as  Ellen  raised  her 
large  eyes  incredulously  to  her  face ;  "  but  more  improbable 
things  have  come  to  pass." 

"And  where  is  Arthur  to  be  while  his  father  is  with  us?" 
demanded  Emnieline.  joyously,  of  her  father.  "  Not  as  a  ser- 
vitor at  college.  I  hope." 

"  No ;  I  anticipate  the  pleasure  of  welcoming  the  friend  of 
Herbert  as  my  guest  as  well  as  his  father,  and  then  we  shall 
7* 


154  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

deliberate  on  Arthur's  future  life.  I  should  like  much  to 
place  him  under  Mr.  Howard  for  a  year,  and  then  establish 
him  in  a  living  of  Lord  Malvern's,  in  which  I  have  little  doubt 
I  could  succeed." 

'•  Well,  my  fancy  then  will  indeed  be  gratified.  I  shall 
see  this  proud  persecuted  youth,  and  judge  for  myself  if  he 
be  deserving  or  not  of  my  brother's  friendship.  Do  you  re- 
member him,  Ellen  ?" 

"  Perfectly  well ;  he  was  so  very  kind  to  me.  I  will  re- 
collect his  grief  when  I  left  the  village,  to  live,  he  said,  in  such 
a  very  different  style,  that  it  was  not  likely  we  should  ever 
meet  again." 

"  But  yet,  you  see,  improbable  as  it  appeared,  you  will  meet 
again,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton  in  a  marked  tone,  as  she  smiled. 

"So  you  call  this  an  Oakwood  hour,  Emmy, 'do  you?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Hamilton,  after  Arthur  and  his  father  had  been 
duly  discussed.  "  Suppose  we  make  the  resemblance  even 
more  complete  by  ringing  for  lights,  and  you  and  Ellen  giving 
me  some  music.  I  have  had  no  opportunities  of  hearing  your 
improvement,  which  I  suppose,  under  such  able  professors,  has 
been  something  extraordinary." 

"  Marvellous,  most  marvellous  !"  exclaimed  Emmeline, 
laughing,  as  she  flew  to  obey  him  by  ringing  the  bell.  "I  had 
begun  to  fancy  I  .was  practising  for  nothing,  and  that  my 
father  would  never  do  his  child  the  honor  of  listening  to  her 
again,  but  I  remembered  the  enchanted  halls  of  Oakwood.  and 
I  thought  there  at  least  I  might  chain  him  to  my  side,  and  so 
I  continued  my  labors." 

"  Let  us  fancy  ourselves  there,"  replied  her  father,  smiling; 
and  lights  appearing,  Emmeline  and  Ellen  were  speedily  at 
tne  instruments,  bestowing  pleasure  unalloyed  by  this  domestio 
use  of  their  talents  to  those  dear  ones  who  had  so  assiduously 
cultivated  them.  Their  improvements,  under  the  best  pro- 
fessors in  London,  had  been  rapid ;  for,  carefully  prepared,  no 
difficulties  had  to  be  overcome  ere  improvement  commenced 
and  the  approbation  and  evident  pleasure  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton  amply  repaid  those  young  and  innocent  beings  for 
all  the  exertions  they  had  made,  particularly  Emmeline,  who, 
as  we  know,  had  determined,  on  her  first  arrival  in  London, 
to  prove  she  would  not  learn,  when  all  around  her  was  sc 
changed. 

"  Surely,  surely,  Caroline,  surrounded  by  gayety  as  she  is, 
cannot  be  as  happy  as  I  am  to-night,"  burst  with  wild  glee 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  155 

from  the  lips  of  Emmeline,  as  at  about  half-past  ten  o'clock 
her  father  kissed  her  glowing  cheek,  and  thanked  her  for  the 
pleasing  recreation  she  had  given  him.  She  had  scarcely 
spoken,  when  a  carriage  was  heard  driving  somewhat  rapidly 
through  the  Square,  then  stopped,  it  appeared  at  their  door, 
and  a  thundering  and  truly  aristocratic  rap  resounded,  startling 
not  a  little  the  inmates  of  that  peaceful  drawing-room. 

'•  Who  can  it  be  at  this  hour  ?"  demanded  Emmeline,  in 
an  accent  of  bewilderment.  "  How  very  disagreeable.  I  did 
not  wish  any  intrusion  to-night.  Mamma,  dear  mamma,  you 
look  terrified." 

Mr.  Hamilton  had  opened  the  drawing-room  door,  and  was 
about  to  descend  the  stairs,  for  he  too  was  startled  at  this 
unusual  visit ;  but  he  turned  at  Emmeline's  words,  for  his 
wife  did  not  usually  indulge  in  unfounded  alarm  or  anticipated 
fears,  but  at  that  instant  her  wonted  presence  of  mind  appeared 
about  to  desert  her ;  she  was  pale  as  marble,  and  had  started 
up  in  an  attitude  of  terror. 

Voices  were  heard,  and  steps,  well-known  steps,  ascending 
the  stairs. 

'•  It  is  the  Duchess  of  Rothbury's  voice  and  step — my  child  !" 
burst  from  her  lips,  in  an  accent  that  neither  Emmeline  nor 
Elleu  ever  could  forget,  and  she  sunk  back  almost  fainting  ou 
her  seat  Her  children  flew  to  her  side  in  alarm,  but  ere  a 
minute  had  passed  away  that  wild  anxiety  was  calmed,  for 
Caroline  herself  entered  with  the  Duchess,  but  her  deathlike 
cheek,  blanched  lip,  and  haggard  eye  told  a  tale  of  suffering 
which  that  mother  could  not  mark  unmoved.  Vainly  Mrs. 
Hamilton  strove  to  rise  and  welcome  the  Duchess:  she  had  no 
power  to  move  from  her  chair. 

"  Caroline,  my  child  !"  were  the  only  words  her  faltering 
tongue  could  utter ;  and  that  agonized  voice  thrilled  through 
the  heart  of  tlie  now  truly  unhappy  girl,  and  roused  her  from 
that  trance  of  overwhelming  emotion' which  bade  her  stand 
spellbound  at  the  threshold.  She  sprung  forward,  and  sinking 
at  her  mother's  feet,  buried  her  face  in  her  robe. 

"  Mother,  my  injured  mother,  oh,  do  not,  do  not  hate  me  !" 
she  murmured,  in  a  voice  almost  inarticulate.  "I  deserve  to 
be  cast  from  your  love,  to  lose  your  confidence  for  ever.  1 
have  deceived  you — I — "  Sobs  choke-*  her  utterance,  and  tlio 
grieving  mother  could  only  throw  her  arms  around  her  child, 
and  press  her  convulsively  to  her  heart.  Anxiety,  nearly 
equal  to  that  of  his  wife,  had  been  an  inmate  of  Mr.  Hamilton1! 


156  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

bosom  as  the  Duchess's  voice  reached  his  ear;  but  as  h* 
glanced  on  Caroline,  a  frown  gathered  on  his  brow..  Ho 
trembled  involuntarily,  for  he  felt  assured  it  was  imprudence, 
to  give  it  the  mildest  term,  in  her  conduct  that  called  for  Una 
untimely  visit,  this  strange  return  t)  her  home.  Already  he 
had  been  deceived  ;  and  while  every  softened  feeling  struggled 
for  mastery  in  the  mother's  bosom,  the  father  stood  ready  to 
judge  atid  to  condemn,  fiercely  conquering  every  rising  emotion 
that  swelled  within.  There  was  even  more  lofty  majesty  in 
the  carriage  of  her  Grace,  as  sht  sarefully  closed  the  drawing- 
room  door  behind  her,  and  slowly  advanced  towards  Mrs. 
Hamilton  ;  a  cold,  severe,  unbending  expression  in  every  feature, 
that  struck  terror  to  the  hearts  of  both  Emmcline  and  Ellen, 
whose  innocent  festivity  was  indeed  now  ru.'ely  checked. 

'•Mrs.  Hamilton,"  the  Duchess  said,  and  the  grave  and  sad 
accents  of  her  voice  caused  the  anxious  mother  hastily  to  raise 
her  head,  and  gaze  inquiringly  in  her  face,  "  to  my  especial 
care  you  committed  your  child.  I  promised  to  guard  her  as 
my  own,  and  on  that  condition  alone  you  intrusted  her  to  me; 
I  alone,  therefore,  restore  her  to  you,  thank  God,  unscathed. 
I  make  no  apology  for  this  strange  and  apparently  needless, 
intrusion  at  this  late  hour;  deceived  as  I  have  been,  my  house 
was  no  longer  a  fitting  home  for  your  daughter,  and  not 
another  night  could  I  retain  her,  when  my  judgment  told  me 
her  father's  watchful  guardianship  alone  could  protect  her  from 
the  designing  arts  of  one,  of  whom  but  very  little  is  known, 
?nd  that  little  not  such  as  would  recommend  him  to  my  favor. 
You,  too,  have  been  deceived,  cruelly  deceived,  by  that  weak, 
infatuated  girl.  Had  you  been  aware  that  Lord  Alphingham 
was  her  secretly  favored  lover,  that  the  coldness  with  which 
she  ever  treated  him  in  public,  the  encouragement  of  another, 
were  but  to  conceal  from  you  and  her  father  her  attachment  to 
him,  you  would  not  have  consented  to  her  joining  a  party  of 
which  he  was  a  member.  At  my  house  be  has  received  in- 
creased encouragement.  I  marked  them  with  a  jealous  eye, 
for  I  could  not  believe  his  attentions  sanctioned  either  by 
you  or  Mr  Hamilton;  but  even  my  vigilance  was  at  fault,  for 
she  had  consented  to  sever  every  tie  which  bound  her  to  her 
too  indulgent  parents,  »,nd  fly  with  him  to  Scotland.  This 
night  would  have  seei.  the  accomplishment  of  their  design. 
Had  one  of  my  children  behaved  thus,  it  would  have  been  lesa 
a  matter  of  bewilderment  to  me  than  such  conduct  in  a  daugh- 
ter of  yours.  I  have  neglected  to  seek  their  confidence,  the'u 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  157 

affection.  You  have  never  rested  in  your  endeavors  to  obtain 
both,  and,  therefore,  that  such  should  be  your  recompense  ia 
sad  indeed.  I  sympathisze  with  you,  my  dearest  friend/'  she 
continued,  in  a  tone  of  much  more  feeling  than  she  ever  allow- 
ed to  be  visible.  "  In  the  tale  of  shame  I  am  repeating,  I  am 
inflicting  misery  upon  you,  I  feel  I  am  ;  and  yet,  in  resigning 
my  charge,  I  must  do  my  duty,  and  set  you  on  your  guard, 
and  let  this  one  reflection  be  your  comfort,  that  it  was  the 
recollection  of  your  untiring  care,  your  constant  affection, 
which  checked  this  infatuated  girl  in  her  career  of  error,  and 
bade  her  pause  ere  it  was  too  late.  For  her  sufferings  I  have 
little  pity ;  she  is  no  longer  the  character  I  believed  her. 
Neither  integrity,  honor,  nor  candor  can  be  any  longer  in- 
mates of  her  heart ;  the  confession  I  have  heard  this  night  has 
betrayed  a  lengthened  scheme  of  deception,  to  which,  had  I 
heard  it  of  her,  I  should  have  given  no  credence.  Forgive  me, 
my  dear  Emmeline,  and  look  not  on  me  so  beseechingly  ;  pain- 
ful as  it  is,  in  the  sincerest  friendship  alone  I  place  before 
your  too  partial  eyes  the  real  character  of  your  child.  I  have 
now  done  my  duty,  and  will  therefore  leave  you.  God  bless 
you,  and  grant  you  strength  to  bear  this  bitter  trial."  She 
turned  to  the  unhappy  father,  who,  as  she  spoke,  had,  overcome 
with  uncontrollable  agitation,  sunk  on  a  chair  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  but  with  a  strong  effort  he  roused  himself 
as  she  pronounced  his  name,  and  rose. 

"  Mr.  Hamilton,  to  your  wife,  your  inestimable  wife,  you 
owe  the  preservation  of  your  child  this  night  from  sin.  Let 
her  not,  I  beseech  you,  afflict  herself  too  deeply  for  those 
sufferings  under  which  she  may  behold  Caroline  for  a  time  the 
victim,  ^he  deserves  them  all — all ;  but  she  merits  not  one- 
half  that  affection  which  her  fond  and  loving  mother  would 
lavish  on  her.  I  leave  you  now,  but,  trust  me,  feelirg  deeply 
for  you  both.'" 

'•  Nay,  rest  with  us  to-night,  at  least,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Hamilton,  conquering  himself  sufficiently  to  think  of  his  friend'? 
situation,  alone,  in  London,  at  such  a  late  hour,  and  endeavor- 
ing to  persuade  her  to  remain  with  them  ;  but  decidedly,  yol 
kindly,  she  refused. 

"  I  sleep  at  St.  James's,  and  shall  be  back  at  Airslie  to- 
morrow morning  before  my  guests  are  recovered  from  the  effect' 
of  to  night,"  she  urged.  '•  Your  hospitality  is  kindly  meunt, 
Hamilton,  but  I  cannot  accept  it ;  both  Caroline  and  her 
mother  can  dispense  with  my  company  now." 

•'  Then  let  me  accompany  you  home  2" 


158  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  I  will  not  hear  of  it,  my  good  friend.  Good  night,  once 
more  ;  God  bless  you  !" 

Mr.  Hamilton  knew  the  character  of  his  noble  friend  too 
well  to  urge  more,  and  therefore  contented  himself  by 'accom- 
panying her  down  stairs. 

To  describe  Mrs.  Hamilton's  feelings,  as  she  listened  to  tho 
words  of  the  Duchess,  would  be  indeed  a  vain  attempt.  We 
know  all  the  anguish  she  had  suffered  when  Caroline's  conduct 
had  first  caused  her  uneasiness,  and  now  the  heightened 
ngony  of  her  fond  heart  may  be  easily  imagined.  Almost 
unconsciously  she  had  withdrawn  her  arm ;  but  Caroline 
clung  more  convulsively  to  her  robd^and  her  first  wild  words 
sounded  again  and  again  in  her  mother's  ears,  soothing  while 
they  inflicted  pain. 

'•Can  it  be  possible  I  have  heard  aright?  Have  I  indeed 
been  thus  deceived?"  she  asked,  struggling  to  speak  calmly, 
when  the  Duchess  and  her  husband  had  left  the  room  ;  and 
she  fixed  her  sad,  searching  glance  upon  Caroline,  who  for  a 
moment  raised  her  head. 

"  Mother,  dearest  mother,  condemn  me,  despise  me  as  you 
please ;  I  deserve  it  all,"  she  replied,  in  an  accent  of  most 
piercing  wretchedness.  "  Only  say  that  I  may  in  time  regain 
your  love,  your  confidence  ;  that  you  will  take  me  to  your  heart 
again.  I  have  disregarded  your  affection  ;  I  have  wilfully  cast 
it  from  me.  Yet — oh,  if  you  knew  all  I  have  suffered.  Mam- 
ma, mamma,  oh,  speak  but  one"  word  more  of  kindness  !  I 
know  1  deserve  it  not,  but  my  heart  feels  breaking.  I  havo 
no  other  friend  on  earth  but  you;  oh,  call  me  but  your  child 
again,  mother  !" 

Her  voice  utterly  failed,  a  film  suddenly  obscured  her  sight, 
and  a  sense  of  suffocation  rose  in  her  throat ;  the  misery  of 
the  last  ten  days,  the  wretchedness  and  excitement  of  that  day 
had  deprived  her  of  more  strength  than  she  was  at  all  aware 
of,  and  with  one  convulsive  effort  to  clasp  her  mother's  hand 
to  her  throbbing  heart,  she  sunk  exhausted  at  her  feet.  Em- 
meline  would  have  flown  for  assistance,  but  a  look  from  her 
mother  bade  her  pause,  and  she  remained  with  Ellen  to  seek 
those  restoratives  that  were  at  hand.  "With  a  throbbing  heart 
and  trembling  hand,  Mrs.  Hamilton  raised  her  repentant 
child,  and  with  the  assistance  of  Emmeline  placed  her  tenderly 
on  the  nearest  couch,  endeavoring,  though  for  some  few  minutes 
in  vain,  to  recall  her  scattered  senses.  Tears  fell  from  that 
foud  mother's  eyes  upon  Caroline's  deathlike  features,  and  ere 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  159 

life  returned  she  had  been  pressed  again  and  again  to  her  heart, 
and  repeated  kisses  imprinted  on  her  marble  brow.  It  mattered 
not  at  that  moment  that  she  had  been  deceived,  that  Caroline 
had  withdrawn  alike  her  confidence  and  affection,  that  her 
conduct  the  last  few  months  had  been  productive  of  bitter  dis- 
appointment and  extreme  anguish,  all,  all,  was  forgotten ;  the 
mother  only  knew  her  child  wag  suffering — only  felt  she  wag 
restored  to  her  arms ;  again  and  again  she  kissed  her  erring 
child,  beseeching  her  with  fond  and  gentle  words  to  wake  and 
know  she  was  forgiven. 

Slowly  Caroline  recovered  consciousness,  and  utidoslng  her 
eyes,  gazed  wildly  yet  sadly  on  all  by  whom  she  was  surround- 
ed. All  the  father  had  struggled  with  Mr.  Hamilton,  as  he 
stood  by  her  side  during  the  continuance  of  her  swoon;  but 
now  sternness  again  darkened  his  brow,  and  he  would  have 
given  vent  to  his  wounded  feelings  in  severe  though  just  re- 
proaches, but  the  beseeching  glance,  the  agonized  voice  of  his 
wife  arrested  him. 

"  Arthur,  my  husband,  oh,  for  my  sake,  spare  her  now  !" 
she  passionately  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hand  in  hers,  and  look- 
ing up  in  his  face  with  imploring  earnestness.  "Spare  her, at 
least,  till  from  her  own  lips  we  have  heard  all  ;  she  is  in  no 
state  to  bear  anger  now,  however  deserved.  Arthur,  dearest 
Arthur,  oh,  do  not  reproach  her  till  we  know  what  it  is  that 
has  caused  the  wretchedness,  the  suffering  we  behold !  For 
my  sake,  spare  her  now." 

"  Mother."  murmured  the  unhappy  girl,  with  a  powerful 
effort  rising  from  the  couch,  and  flinging  herself  on  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton's neck,  "  do  not  plead  for  me  ;  I  do  not  deserve  it.  My 
conduct  to  you  the  last  few  months  would  alone  demand  the 
severest  reproa  -lies  papa  could  inflict  ;  and  that.  oh.  that  is 
but  little  to  the  crime  I  should  have  committed,  had  not  the 
remembrance  of  all  your  devotion  rushed  to  my  mind,  and  ar- 
rested me,  but  a  few  brief  hours  ere  it  would  have  been  too 
lute,  and  I  should  have  sacrificed  myself  to  a  man  I  discovered 
I  did  not  love,  merely  to  prove  I  was  not  a  slave  to  your  dic- 
tates, that  I  had  a  will  of  my  own,  and  with  or  without  your 
consent  would  abide  by  it.  I  have  been  infatuated,  blind — 
led  on  by  artful  persuasion,  false  representations,  and  weakly 
I  have  yielded.  Do  not  weep  for  me,  Emmeline,  I  am  not 
worthy  of  your  tears.  You  would  have  guided  me  aright ; 
you  would  have  warned  me,  advised  me,  but  I  rejected  your 
eounsel,  spurned  your  affection  ;  with  coatenipt,  aversion  from 


160  THE  MOTHERS  RECOMPENSE. 

all,  from  each,  do  I  deserve  to  be  regarded.  Ellen,  you  maj 
triumph  now ;  I  did  sJl  I  could  to  prove  how  I  hated  aud  des- 
pised you  some  months  ago,  and  now,  oh,  how  much  more  have 
I  fallen.  Oh,  why,  why  did  I  ever  leave  Oakwood  ? — why  was 
I  so  eager  to  visit  London  ?"  Exhaustion  choked  her  voice, 
the  vehemence  with  which  bhe  had  spoken  overpowered  her, 
and  her  mother  was  compelled  to  lead  her  to  a  couch,  and  force 
her  to  sit  down  beside  her.  Mr.  Hamilton  spoke  not ;  for  a 
few  minutes  he  paced  the  room  with  agitated  steps,  and  then 
hastily  quitted  it. 

"  It  is  so  very  late,  you  had  better  retire,  my  dear  girls." 
Mrs.  Hamilton  said,  after  a  brief  pause,  addressing  Emmeline 
and  Ellen,  who  yet  lingered  sorrowfully  near  her.  They  un- 
derstood her  hint,  and  instantly  obeyed,  both  affectionately  but 
silently  embracing  Caroline  ere  they  departed ;  and  it  was  a 
relief  to  Mrs.  Hamilton's  anxious  bosom  to  find  herself  alone 
with  her  painfully  repentant  child.  For  some  time  did  that 
interview  continue  ;  and  when  Caroline  retired  to  rest,  it  wad 
with  a  spirit  lighter  than  it  had  been  for  many  weeks,  spite  of 
the  dark  clouds  she  still  felt  were  aroud  her.  All  her  strange 
wayward  feelings  had  been  confessed.  She  laid  no  stress  oti 
those  continued  letters  she  had  received  from  Annie,  which  had 
from  the  first  alienated  tier  from  her  mother.  Remorse  was 
too  busy  within  to  bid  her  attempt  to  defend  herself  by  incul- 
pating others ;  but  though  she  carefully  avoided  reference  to 
her  misleading  friend,  Mrs.  Hamilton  could  easily,  very  easily, 
perceive  from  whose  arts  all  her  own  misery  and  Caroline's 
present  suffering  originated  ;  and  bitterly  in  secret  she  re 
preached  herself  for  ever  permitting  that  intimacy  to  continue, 
and  obtain  the  influence  it  had.  To  Lord  St.  Eval  and  her 
conduct  to  him  the  unhappy  girl  also  referred.  Pride  wag 
completely  at  an  end ;  every  question  Mrs.  Hamilton  asked 
was  answered  with  all  that  candor  and  integrity  which  had 
once  characterized  her  most  trifling  words  ;  and  while  her  un- 
disguised confession  on  many  points  occasioned  the  most 
poignant  sorrow,  yet  still,  as  the  mother  listened,  and  gazed  on 
those  expressive  features,  something  whispered  within  her  that 
her  child  would  be  a  blessing  still.  She  owned  that  from  the 
moment  she  had  rejected  Lord  St.  Eval,  regret  had  become  so 
unceasing,  that  to  escape  it  she  had  listened  and  encouraged 
Lord  Alphingham  more  than  she  had  done  before:  his  profes- 
sions of  devoted  love  had  appeared  as  balm,  and  deadened  the 
vepi  oaohes  of  conscience.  Why  she  had  so  carefully  concealed 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  161 

her  parents  that  which  she  imagined  was  love  for  the 
Viscount  she  could  not  explain,  unless  it  was  her  weakness  in 
following  the  example  of  othors,  who.  she  had  been  told,  shrunk 
from  confessing  love-stories  to  their  mothers  ;  or,  and  that  Mrs. 
Hamilton  helieved  much  nearer  the  real  reason,  she  did  not 
love  him  sufficiently  to  implore  their  consent  to  his  addresses. 
She  acknowledged,  when  their  prohibition  to  her  acquaintance 
v,-ith  him  was  given,  she  had  longed  to  confess  the  truth,  and 
implore  them  at  least  to  say  why  she  might  no  longer  enjoy 
his  society  ;  but  that  she  had  felt  too  indignant  at  what  she 
deemed  the  slavery  in  which  she  was  held,  and  discontent  and 
irritation  then  took  possession  of  her,  instead  of  willing  obedi- 
ence. She  described  her  feelings  when  he  appeared  at  Airslie, 
the  many  struggles  she  then  had  with  herself;  and,  finally,  her 
•wretchedness  from  the  moment  she  had  consented  to  be  his 
wife  ;  her  entreaties  that  he  would  permit  her  to  implore  her 
father's  consent ;  her  agony  the  same  evening ;  her  fervent 
prayer  for  forgiveness  and  guidance  ;  and,  at  length,  her  de- 
termination to  elude  him  by  setting  off  for  home  the  instant 
the  Duchess  and  her  party  had  left  the  villa,  which  inten- 
tion sh»  had  endeavored  to  put  in  force  by  imploring  the  assis- 
tance and  secrecy  of  her  Grace's  own  maid,  to  procure  her  a 
safe  carriage  and  fleet  horses,  as  she  was  compelled  to  return 
home  that  same  night;  she  would  leave  a  note,  she  said,  ex- 
plaining her  reason  for  her  departure  to  her  Grace.  She  fan- 
cied Allison  must  have  betrayed  her,  as,  when  she  was  every 
minute  expecting  to  hear  the  carriage  was  ready,  the  Duchess 
entered  her  room,  and,  after  a  brief  but  stern  interview,  order- 
ed her  own  carriage,  and  had  herself  accompanied  her  to  town 

Mrs.  Hamilton  listened  to  this  long  sad  tale  without  inter- 
rupting it  by  a  word  of  reproach.  Not  once  did  she  speak 
aught  that  might  tend  to  increase  the  anguish  under  which  it 
was  so  evident  Caroline  was  suffering.  Soothingly  she  spoke, 
and  that  fond  yet  saddened  tone  caused  the  poor  girl's  burst- 
ing heart  to  find  relief  in  a  violent  flood  of  tears.  She  clung, 
even  as  in  childhood,  to  her  mother's  neck,  and  as  she  wept, 
felt  yet  more  bitterly  the  infatuated  folly  of  her  conduct  in 
having  for  a  moment  forsaken  the  guidance  of  her  true  and 
kindest  friend,  for  the  apparently  more  pleasing,  because  flat- 
tering, confidence  of  one  whom  she  now  knew  to  be  false  and 
utterly  deceiving. 

"  But  may  he  not  still  da;m  me  !"  she  wildly  exclaimed, 
"  AYill  he  not  hold  me  up  to  the  world  as  a  faithless,  capricious 


162  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

girl  ?  I  shall  be  the  laughing-stock  of  all  with  whom  we  asso> 
ciate.  Annie  is  not  likely  to  keep  my  secret.  Oh,  why  did 
I  ever  confide  in  her?  Mother,  I  shall  be  despised,  derided. 
I  kuow  I  have  brought  it  on  myself,  but  oh,  how  can  I  bear  it?" 

"  We  leave  London  so  very  shortly,  that  I  trust  you  will 
not  be  exposed  to  the  derision  you  so  much  dread,"  replied 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  soothingly,  "and  by  next  season  I  hope  all 
floating  rumors  that  your  conduct  must  occasion  may  have  en- 
tirely passed  away.  You  need  not  fear  the  scorn  of  the  circle  in 
which  we  principally  mingle  ;  and  that  of  Annie's  companions, 
if  the  dread  of  their  laughter  keep  you  from  seeking,  as  you 
have  done,  their  society,  forgive  me,  my  love,  if  I  say  I  shall 
rejoice  ;  for  you  will  then  no  longer  be  exposed  to  cxamole  and 
precept  contrary  to  those  I  have  endeavored  to  instil." 

"But,  Lord  Alphingham.  what  will  he  say  or  do?"  mur- 
mured Caroline,  almost  inaudible. 

"  You  must  write  to  him,  Caroline,  dissolving  your  engage- 
inent ;  there  is  no  other  way." 

"  Write  to  him.  mother,  I — oh,  no,  no,  I  cannot." 

"  If  you  do  not,  you  will  still  be  exposed  to  constant  an- 
noyance ;  he  may  choose  to  believe  that  you  were  forced  by 
compulsion  to  return  to  us.  The  circumstance  of  the  Duchess 
herself  accompanying  you  to  town,  he  will  consider  as  suffi- 
cient evidence.  Acting  on  your  promise,  on  your  avowed  pre- 
ference, unless  you  write  yourself,  he  will  leave  no  means  un- 
tried to  succeed  in  his  sinful  schemes.  Painful  as  is  tho  task, 
or  rather  more  disagreeable  than  painful  if  you  do  not  love 
him,  no  one  but  yourself  must  write,  and  the  sooner  you  do  so 
the  better." 

"  But  if  he  really  loves  me?  How  can  I — how  dare  I  inflict 
more  pain,  more  disappointment,  than  I  have  done  already?" 

"Loves  you!"  repeated  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  displeasure 
mingled  in  her  saddened  tone  ;  "  Caroline,  do  not  permit  your- 
self to  be  thus  egregiously  deceived.  He  may  fancy  that  he 
does,  but  it  is  no  true  honorable  love;  if  it  were,  would  he 
thus  bear  you  by  stealth  from  the  friend  to  whom  you  were 
intrusted  ?  If  his  conscience  were  indeed  free  from  all  stain, 
would  he  have  refused  your  entreaties  that  you  might  confess 
your  love  to  us,  and  beseech  our  blessing  on  your  union  ? 
Would  he  have  shrunk  from  defending  his  conduct  according 
to  your  advice?  Nay,  more;  if  this  accusation,  which  he  has 
traced  by  some  means  to  Percy,  were  indeed  unfounded  and 
unjust,  do  you  think  he  would  have  refrained  one  momeni 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  163 

from  coming  forward  and  asserting,  not  only  by  word  but  by 
proof,  his  unblemished  innocence?  His  silence  is  to  me  the 
clearest  proof  of  conduct  that  will  not  bear  investigation;  and 
1  tremble  to  think  what  miseries,  what  wretchedness  might 
have  been  your  portion,  had  you  indeed  consented  to  his  un- 
worthy proposal."  Her  voice  faltered,  and  she  drew  the  still 
weeping  girl  closer  to  her.  as  if  her  maternal  love  should  pro- 
tect her  from  every  evil.  Caroline  answered  not,  and  after  a 
few  nunutes  Mrs.  Hamilton  said,  with  tenderness — 

"  You  do  not  repent  your  decision,  my  own  child  ?  You  do 
not  regret  that  you  have  returned  to  those  who  love  and  cher- 
ish you  so  fondly  ?  Speak  to  me,  love." 

Convulsively  Caroline's  hand  pressed  her  mother's,  as  if 
that  pressure  should  say  nothing  more  should  part  them  ;  then 
suddenly  sinking  on  her  knees  before  her,  she  forced  back  the 
choking  sobs,  aud  said,  clearly  and  distinctly — 

'•  Mother,  I  dare  no  longer  ask  you  to  believe  my  simple 
word,  as  in  former  years  you  would  have  done,  I  have  deceived 
you  too  long,  too  culpably  for  that ;  but  now,  on  my  knees,  sol- 
emnly, sacredly  I  swear.  1  will  never  marry  without  papa's  and 
your  consent  I  dare  no  longer  trust  myself;  I  have  once 
been  rendered  blind  by  that  pitiful  craving  for  freedom  from 
all  authority,  for  unchecked  independenee  of  thought  and  word 
and  deed,  and  never,  never  more  will  I  stand  forth  in  my  own 
weakness.  My  fate  is  in  your  hands,  for  never  will  I  marry 
without  your  blessing;  and  may  that  vow  be  registered 
above  as  solemnly  as  it  is  now  taken.  Mother,  you  will  not 
refuse  to  accept  it,"  she  added,  laying  her  trembling  hand  on 
Mrs.  Hamilton's,  and  gazing  beseechingly  in  her  face 

••  I  wiH  not.  my  child  ;:I  and  her  mother  struggled  severely 
to  conquer  her  emotion  and  speak  calmly.  "  Tell  me  only  it 
is  in  my  affection  you  confide,  that  it  is  not  under  feelings  of 
remorse  alone  you  have  made  this  solemn  vow.  Promise  me 
you  will  no  longer  permit  a  doubt  of  my  affection  and  interest 
in  your  happiness  to  enter  your  mind  and  poison  your  confi- 
dence in  me,  as  it  has  done.  From  that  doubt  all  the  present 
misery  has^proceeded.  You  have  imagined  your  parents  harsh 
and  cruel,  while  they  have  only  thought  of  your  welfare.  Say 
only  you  will  trust  iu  our  affection,  my  child,  my  own  Caroline." 

';  Oh,  that  I  had  ever  trusted  in  it.  My  blindness  and  folly 
concealed  from  me  my  misconduct,  and  bade  me  ascribe  all  my 
sufferings  to  you,  on  whom  I  have  inflicted  so  much  pain. 
Mother  oh.  forgive  me,  plead  for  me  to  papa.  I  know  he  is 


i64  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

seriously  displeased,  he  has  every  right  to  be  so;  but  he  knows 
not  all  I  have  endured,  the  agony  of  the  last  week.  I  deserve 
his  severest  reproaches,  but  my  heart  feels  as  if  it  would  break 
beneath  his  anger  now,"  and  she  laid  her  aching  head  oil  her 
mother's  lap,  and  wept. 

"  My  forgiveness,  my  blessing,  are  both  yours,  my  own 
Do  not  weep  thus,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  imprinting  a  kiss 
on  that  burning  forehead.  "  And  your  father  too,  when  he  has 
heard  all,  will  not  withhold  his  love." 

"  I  will  write  to  Lord  Alphingham  now,  mother  ;  it  is  use- 
less to  defer  it.  and  my  mind  will  not  regain  its  peace  till  it  is 
done,"  exclaimed  Caroline,  after  a  brief  pause,  which  had  fol- 
lowed her  mother's  words. 

"  Not  now,  my  love,  you  are  too  agitated  still,"  replied  her 
mother,  gazing  anxiously  on  her  flushed  cheek;  "wait  till  sleep 
shall  have  calmed  this  inward  fever,  and  restored  you  to  com- 
posure. I  do  not  think  you  can  write  it  now." 

"  I  cannot  sleep  till  I  have,  mamma,  indeed  I  cannot.  I 
ought  to  have  left  it  for  him  before  I  quitted  Airslie,  but  I 
could  then  think  of  nothing  but  the  ardent  longing  to  see  you, 
to  hear  your  voice  again  ;  let  me  write  now." 

And  believing  her  words  were  true,  that  in  all  probability 
she  would  not  sleep  while  that  letter  was  on  her  mind,  Mrs. 
Hamilton  made  no  further  objection,  and  rose  to  place  the  ink- 
stand and  portfolio  on  a  table  near  her.  Caroline  remained 
still  kneeling,  and  by  her  attitude  Mrs.  Hamilton  fancied  was 
engaged  in  secret  prayer  ;  her  tears  were  checked  as  she  rose, 
and  it  was  with  firmness  she  walked  to  the  table  and  drew  a 
'  seat  beside  it.  Anxiously  for  a  few  minutes  did  her  mother 
watch  her  as  she  wrote.  At  first  her  hand  appeared  to  trem 
ble,  but  a  .successful  effort  conquered  that  emotion,  and  the  in- 
creasing flush  upon  her  cheek  alone  proclaimed  the  agitation 
of  her  mind.  So  deeply  was  she  engrossed  in  her  painful  task, 
that  she  did  not  observe  her  mother  had  left  the  room,  and  re- 
mained absent  for  a  few  minutes,  returning,  however,  before 
she  had  finished  her  letter.  Without  looking  up,  she  placed 
the  paper  in  Mrs.  Hamilton's  hands,  and,  leaning  her  arms  on 
the  tabie,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  folded  the  letter  in  perfect  silence ;  but 
then  taking  the  hand  of  her  daughter  from  her  eyes,  she 
pressed  it  in  hers,  and  said,  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion — 

"  I  am  satisfied,  my  child.  Let  this  letter  be  directed  and 
sealed  with  jour  own  hand,  and  the  name  of  Lord  Alphingham 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  165 

shall  never- again  pass  my  lips.  It  is  enough  that  duty  and 
affection  have  triumphed  over  his  intentions.  I  know  not  all 
the  evil  that  might  have  been  yours  had  he  succeeded,  but  you 
are  restored  to  me,  and  may  God  forgive  him  as  freely  as  I  do." 

With  a  steady  hand  Caroline  directed  and  placed  her  own 
seal  to  the  letter  ;  and  then,  exhausted  by  the  agitation  of  that 
evening,  she  leaned  her  throbbing  head  against  her  mother. 

"  Caroline,  my  child  !"  exclaimed  a  deep  and  saddened  roice 
beside  her.  She  started,  and  looking  up,  beheld  her  father, 
who  had  been  gazing  at  her  an  unobserved  spectator  for  the 
last  half  hour. 

Fo.givc  me,  dearest  father.  Oh.  let  me  not  sleep  to-night 
without  your  forgiveness.  Mamma  will  not  cast  me  from  her 
heart ;  she  has  blessed  me,  and  I  have  injured  her  even  more 
than  you.  Papa,  dear  papa,  oh,  speak  to  me  but  one  word  of 
fondness  !"  she  entreated,  as  her  father  drew  her  to  his  bosom, 
and  as  she  ceased,  mingled  his  blessing  and  forgiveness  in  that 
warm  embrace.  • 

It  was  late,  so  late,  that  the  early  morn  was  beginning  to 
gild  the  horizon  before  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  seen  her  agitated 
child  placed  in  bed.  and  persuaded  her  to  compose  her  spirits 
and  invite  sleep.  Fondly  her  mother  watched  beside  her  till 
the  gray  dawn  had  penetrated  within  the  room ;  and  then  per- 
ceiving that  calm  sleep  had  come  at  length,  she  retired  to  her 
own  apartment.  There  sinking  on  her  knees,  her  overcharged 
heart  found  blessed  relief  in  pouring  forth  to  Heaven  its  fer- 
vent thanksgiving  for  that  great  mercy  vouchsafed  her  in  the 
restoration  of  her  child.  The  anguish  of  the  past,  the  suffer- 
ing of  the  present  were  alike  forgotten,  in  the  thought  that 
Caroline's  affection  and  confidence  were  again  restored  to  her. 
The  veil  had  at  length  been  removed  from  her  eyes.  Annie's 
character  was  revealed  before  her,  and, the  sorrowful  and  re- 
pentant girl  had  once  more  sought  for  sympathy  in  the  bosom 
of  her  mother.  She  now  felt  that  mother  was  her  truest  friend, 
and  a  glow  of  sweet  and  soothing  pleasure  stole  over  Mrs. 
Hamilton's  mind  at  this  conviction.  Caroline  had  said  it  was 
the  recollection  of  her  mother's  care,  devotion,  and  love  that 
had  stayed  her,  ere  it  was  too  late  She  could  not  banish  from 
her  heart  the  duty  therein  so  long  and  carefully  implanted  ; 
the  principles  of  religion,  of  virtue,  shaken  as  they  had  been  in 
that  painful  moment  of  indecision,  had  preserved  her  from 
misery.  Often,  very  often.  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  felt  disheart- 
ened, almost  despairing  in  her  task,  during  both  the  childhood 


166         THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

• 

and  youth  of  Caroline,  but  ^uw  her  recompense  was  apparent 
Had  she  not  persevered ;  had  she  been  indolent  or  careless  in 
the  discharge  of  her  duty,  had  she  left  the  care  of  that  child  to 
strangers,  who  would  never  have  thus  studied  or  guided  so 
difficult  a  disposition,  there  would  have  been  naught  to  bid  her 
pause.  She  would  have  done  as  others  too  often  do,  and  fear- 
ful indeed  would  have  been  her  chastisement.  Now,  what 
were  all  Mrs.  Hamilton's  self-conquering  struggles,  all  the  pain 
she  had  suffered,  compared  with  the  exquisite  happiness  of 
feeling  that  her  care  had  preserved  her  child,  and  she  knew 
not  as  yet  from  what  depth  of  wretchedness?  Fervent  was 
the  gratitude  for  that  grace  which  had  permitted  her  to  guide 
her  child  aright;  and  as  she  recalled  the  heartfelt  approbation 
of  her  conduct,  which  her  beloved  husband  had  gratefully  ex- 
pressed, happiness  filled  her  heart,  and  many,  very  many  might 
have  envied  that  noble  woman  her  feelings,  as  she  laid  her 
head  on  her  pillow  that  night,  when  Asleep  only  hushed  the  still 
lingering  thanksgi^hig  on  her  lips. 

It  may  be  well  here  briefly  to  relate  all  that  had  passed  at 
Airslie,  from  the  moment  we  left  Caroline  imploring  pardon 
and  guidance  from  Him,  to  whom  she  had  never  appealed  in 
vain,  to  that  when  she  so  suddenly  appeared  in  company  with 
the  Duchess  in  Berkeley  Square.  To  accede  to  Lord  Alph ing- 
ham's  wishes,  she  felt  was  no  longer  possible,  but  how  to  avoid 
him  was  a  matter  of  still  greater  difficulty.  To  accompany  the 
Duchess  and  thus  elude  him,  she  could  not,  for  she  felt  neither 
her  strength  nor  spirits  could  sustain  her  through  the  whole  of 
that  festive  night.  Each  minute  as  it  passed  increased  the 
fever  of  her  braii,  at  length  in  despair  she  determined  on  the 
conduct  with  which  we  are  already  acquainted.  As  soon  as 
the  last  carriage  had  rolled  from  the  door  she  summoned  Alli- 
son, the  Duchess's  own  maid,  and  in  accents  that  painfully 
betrayed  the  agitation  within,  implored  her  to  procure  her  a 
carriage  and  fleet  horses,  as  circumstances  had  occurred  which 
obliged  her  instantly  to  return  to  town.  She  besought  her 
neither  to  question  her  nor  to  speak  of  her  sudden  resolution 
to  any  one,  as  the  note  she  would  leave  behind  for  her  Grace 
would  fully  explain  all.  Allison  remained  for  some  few 
minutes  gazing  on  the  agitated  girl,  in  motionless  astonish- 
ment. 

':  Return  to  London  at  such  a  time  of  night,  and  nlonc," 
she  rather  allowed  to  drop  from  her  lips  than  said,  after  a  long 
pause. 


THE  MOTHEH~'S  RECOMPENSE.  167 

"  Oh,  would  to  heaven  some  one  would  go  with  me  !  but  I 
know  none  whom  I  can  ask,"  Caroline  replied,  in  a  tone  of 
anguish,  and  seizing  Allison's  hand,  again  and  again  implored 
her  assistance.  Briefly  she  promised  to  do  all  she  could  for 
her.  and  left  her,  not  to  do  her  bidding  by  seeking  some  con- 
veyance, but  to  report  the  strange  request  and  still  more 
alarming  manner  of  Caroline  to  her  Grace;  who  from  some 
secret  reason,  which  her  daughters  and  friends  in  vain  endeav* 
ored  to  solve,  had  at  the  very  last  moment  declared  her  intention 
of  not  accompanying  them,  and  wishing  them,  with  the  utmost 
kindness,  a  pleasant  evening,  commissioned  Lady  Lucy  and 
her  eldest  brother,  who  had  lately  joined  them,  to  supply  her 
place  in  their  own  party,  and  to  tender  her  excuses  to  the  noble 
master  of  the  fete  The  simple  truth  was.  that  the  penetration 
of  the  Duchess  had  observed  and  detected  from  the  very  first 
the  manoeuvres  of  Lord  Alphingham  and  Caroline. 

The  former,  as  may  have  already  been  discovered,  was  one 
of  those  against  whom  her  prejudice  was  very  strong.  With 
her  own  free  will,  Lord  Alphingham  would  never  have  visited 
at  her  house,  although  she  was  never  heard  to  breathe  one 
word  to  his  disadvantage;  especially  invited  he  never  was.  and 
in  heart  she  was  much  annoyed  at  her  husband's  marked  pre- 
ference and  encouragement  of  his  society.  She  had  observed 
her  friend  Mrs.  Hamilton's  coldness  towards  him  ;  and  as 
much  as  she  admired  the  conduct  of  the  mother,  so  she  some- 
times found  herself  mistrusting  the  studied  air  and  guarded 
reserve  witli  which  Caroline  ever  treated  the  Viscount.  The 
sudden  change  in  Mr.  Hamilton's  manner  had  also  struck  her, 
and.  therefore,  when  Alphingham  joined  her  coterie,  not  once 
did  she  ever  fail  in  the  jealous  watchfulness  with  which  she 
regarded  him  £,nd  Caroline.  Rendered  suspicious  by  all  that 
she  had  observed,  Caroline's  determination  not  to  join  the 
party  that  evening  had  increased  her  uneasiness  to  a  degree 
that  almost  amounted  to  alarm,  and  at  that  very  instant  her 
resolution  was  fixed  to  remain  at  Airslie.  She  desired  Allison 
not  to  mention  her  intention  of  remaining  to  Miss  Hamilton, 
but  to  inform  her  minutely  of  all  that  passed  during  the 
evening;  and  her  astonishment  was  almost  as  great  as  her 
domestic's  had  been  when  Caroline's  desire  was  related  to  her. 

It  wanted  but  one-half  hour  to  the  time  appointed  by  the 
Viscount,  and  Caroline  still  sat  in  a  state  of  anxiety  and  sus- 
pense, which  tortured  her  almost  to  frenzy.  Unable  to  bear  it 
longer,  her  hand  was  on  the  bell  once  more  to  summon  Allison, 


168  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

when  the  lock  of  the  door  turned,  and  starting  forwards,  the 
words,  '•  Is  all  ready — have  you  succeeded  ?"  were  arrested  on 
her  lips  by  the  appearance  of  the  Duchess  herself,  who,  closing 
the  door,  stood  gazing  on  the  terrified  girl  with  a  glance  of 
severity  and  command  few  could  have  met  unmoved.  Scarcely 
conscious  of  what  she  did,  Caroline  started  back,  and  sinking 
on  a  stool  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  room  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

"  May  I  know  with  what  intent  Miss  Hamilton  is  about  to 
withdraw  herself  from  my  roof  and  my  protection?"  she  de- 
manded, in  those  brief  yet  searching  tones  she  ever  used  when 
displeased.  "  What  reason  she  can  allege  for  this  unceremo- 
nious departure  from  a  house  where  she  has  ever  been  regarded 
as  one  of  its  most  favored  inmates  ?  Your  mother  trusted 
you  to  my  care,  and  on  your  duty  to  her  I  demand  an  answer." 
She  continued,  after  a  brief  pause,  in  which  Caroline  neither 
moved  nor  spoke,  "  Where  would  you  go  at  this  unseasonable 
hour  ?" 

"  Home  to  my  mother,"  murmured  the  unhappy  girl,  in  a 
voice  almost  inarticulate. 

"  Home  !"  repeated  her  Grace,  in  a 'bitterly  satirical  tone. 
"  Strange,  that  you  should  thus  suddenly  desire  to  return. 
WTere  you  not  the  child  of  those  to  whom  equivocation  is  un- 
known, I  might  well  doubt  that  tale; — home,  and  wherefore?" 

"To save  myself  from  the  effects  of  my  own  sinful  fully — 
my  own  infatuated  madness,"  replied  Caroline  summoning  with 
a  strong  effort  all  the  energy  of  her  character,  and  with  a  ve- 
hemence that  flushed  her  palid  cheek  with  crimson.  "  In  this 
at  least  I  am  sincere,  though  in  all  else  I  deserve  no  longer  to 
be  regarded  as  the  child  of  such  noble-minded  beings  as  are  my 
parents.  Spurn -me  from  you  as  you  will,  this  is  no  moment 
for  equivocation  and  delay.  I  have  deceived  your  Grace.  I 
was  about  to  bring  down  shame  upon  your  house,  to  cause  your 
indignant  displeasure,  my  parents  anguish,  myself  but  enaless, 
remorseful  misery.  To  save  all  this,  I  would  return  home  to 
implore  the  forgiveness,  the  protection  of  my  parents ;  they 
alone  can  guard  me  from  myself.  Oh,  if  you  ever  loved  my 
mother,"  she  continued,  starting  up  with  agony,  as  the  hour  of 
nine  chimed  on  her  ear,  u  send  some  one  with  me.  and  let  me  go 
home.  Half  an  hour  more."  and  her  voice  grew  almost  inar- 
ticulate with  suppressed  emotion,  ".and  it  may  be  too  late,  . 
Mother  mother,  if  I  could  but  see  you  once  again  !" 

''  Before,  as  the  wife  or  the  victim  of  the  llight  Honorable 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  169 

Lord  Alphingham,  you  fly  from  her  for  ever,  and  thus  reward 
her  cares,  her  love,  her  prayers,  wretched  and  deceiving  girl." 
sternly  and  slowly  the  Duchess  said,  as  she  rapidly  yet  with 
her  usual  majesty  paced  the  room,  and  laid  her  hand  heavily 
on  Caroline's  shoulder,  as  she  sat  bowed  down  \v:th  shame  be- 
fore her.  "  Deny  it  not ;  it  was  thus  you"  would  bring  down 
shame  on  my  home ;  thus  create  agony  for  your  cu  voted  pa- 
rents ;  thus  prove  your  gratitude,  love,  obedience,  by  wrench- 
ing every  tie  asunder.  Oh,  shame,  shame  !  If  this  be  the  fruit 
of  such  tender  cares,  such  careful  training,  oh,  where  thall  we 
seek  for  honor  and  integrity — in  what  heart  find  virtue  ?  And 
why  not  consummate  your  sin  ?  why  pause  ere  your  noble  and 
virtuous  resolution  was  put  in  force  1  why  hesitate  in  the  ac- 
complishment of  your  designs?  Why  not  fly  with  your  honor- 
able lover,  and  thus  wring  the  fond  hearts  of  your  parents  at 
once  to  the  utmost  ?  Why  retract  now,  when  it  will  be  only  to 
delude  again  ?  Miserable  and  deluded  girl,  what  new  whim 
has  caused  this  sudden  change?  Wherefore  wait  tul  it  be  too 
late  to  repent — to  persuade  us  that  you  are  an  unwilling  abet- 
tor and  assistant  in  this  man's  schemes?  Go,  fly  \v  th  him  ;  it 
were  better  to  reconcile  your  too  indulgent  mother  tu  an  eternal 
separation,  than  that  she  should  take  you  once  more  to  her 
heart,  and  be  again  deceived.  Go,  your  secret  \s  safe.  How 
dare  you  speak  of  inflicting  misery  on  your  parents?  Must  not 
hypocrisy  lurk  in  every  word,  when  wilfully,  recklessly,  you 
have  already  abused  their  confidence  and  insulted  their  love? 
much  more  you  cannot  do."  She  paused,  as  if  in  expectation 
of  a  reply,  but  none  came.  Caroline's  breaking  heart  had  lost 
that  proud  spirit  which,  a  few  days  before,  would  have  called  a 
haughty  answer  from  her  lips.  She  writhed  beneath  those 
stern  unpitying  accents,  which  perhaps  in  such  a  moment  of 
reiuorsQf'ul  agony  might  have  been  spared,  but  she  replied  not; 
and,  after  a  brief  silence,  the  Duchess  again  spoke.  - 

"  Caroline,  answer  mo.  What  has  caused  this  suddec 
change  in  your  intentions?  What  has  chanced  between  you 
and  Lord  Alphingham  to  demand  this  sudden  longing  for 
home  ?  What  impulse  bids  you  thus  elude  him  !" 

"  The  memory  of  my  mother's  love,"  and  Caroline  raised 
her  head,  and  pushing  back  her  disordered  hair,  gazed  upon  the 
face  of  the  Duchess  with  an  expression  of  suffering  few  could 
have  looked  upon  unmoved.  ';  You  are  right,  I  have  deceived 
my  too  indulgent  parents,  I  have  abused  their  confidence,  iu- 
sulted  their  love  ;  but  I  cannot,  oh,  I  cannot  stiil  those  prin- 
8 


170  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

clples  within  me  which  they  have  implanted.  In  my  houro  of 
maddening  folly  I  renfembered  them  not ;  I  believed  they  had 
gone  from  me  for  ever,  and  I  should  be  happy.  They  have  re- 
turned to  torture  me,  to  tell  me  that  as  the  wife  of  Lord 
Alphingham,  without  the  blessing  of  my  parents,  I  shall  be 
wretched.  1  have'  brought  down  endless  misery  on  myself — 
that  mattes  not;  but  oh,  I  will  not  cause  them  further  suffer- 
ing. I  will  no  longer  wring  the  heart  of  my  gentle  mother, 
who  has  so  often  prayed  for  her  erring  child.  Too  late,  per- 
haps, I  have  determined,  but  the  wife  of  Lord  Alphingham  I 
will  never  be  ;  but  his  character  is  still  dear  to  me,  and  I  en- 
treat your  Grace  not  to  withdraw  your  favor  from  him.  Hfi 
alone  is  not  to  blame,  I  also  am  culpable,  for  I  acknowledge 
the  encouragement  I  have  given  him.  My  character  for  in- 
tegrity is  gone,  but  his  is  still  unstained." 

"  Fear  not  for  him,  my  favor  he  has  never  had ;  but  my 
honor  is  too  dear  to  me  for  such  an  affair  as  this  to  pass  my 
lips.  Let  him  continue  the  courted,  the  spoiled,  the  nattered 
child  of  fashion  he  has  ever  been.  I  regard  him  not.  Let  him 
run  his  course  rejoicing,  it  matters  not  to  me."  She  rang  the 
bell  as  she  spoke,  and  slowly  and  silently  paced  the  room  till 
Allison  obeyed  the  summons.  "Desire  James  to  put  four 
swift  horses  to  the  chariot.  Important  business  calls  me  in- 
stantly to  London ;  bid  him  use  dispatch,  every  moment  is 
precious." 

Allison  departed,  and  the  Duchess  continued  pacing  the 
apartment  till  she  returned,  announcing  the  carriage  as  ready. 
A  very  few  minutes  sufficed  for  their  personal  preparations,  for 
the  Duchess  to  give  peremptory  orders  to  her  trusty  Allison 
to  keep  her  departure  a  profound  secret,  as  she  should  return 
before  her  guests  were  stirring  the  next  morning,  and  herself 
account  for  Miss  Hamilton's  sudden  return  home.  Few  words 
were  sufficient  for  Allison,  who  was  in  all  respects  well  fitted 
for  the  situation  she  held  near  a  person  of  the  Duchess  of 
Rothbury's  character ;  and  the  carriage  rolled  rapidly  from 
Airslie. 

Not  another  word  passed  between  the  travelling  compan- 
ions. In  feverish  agitation  on  the  part  of  Caroline,  in  cold, 
unbending  sternness  on  that  of  the  Duchess,  their  journey 
passed.  To  the  imagination  of  the  former,  the  roll  of  the 
carriage-wheels  was  the  sound  of  pursuing  horses ;  in  every 
turn  of  the  road  her  fevered  fancy  beheld  the  figure  of  Lord 
Alphingham :  at  one  time  glaring  on  her  in  reproachful,  bitter- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMP£NSE.  171 

Hess,  at  another,  in  mockery,  derision,  satire ;  and  when  she 
closed  lier  eyes,  those  visions  still  tormented,  nor  did  they  de- 
part till  she  felt  her  mother's  arm  around  her,  her  gentle  voice 
pronounce  her  name. 

True  to  her  determination,  the  Duchess  left  London  as 
early  as  six  the  following  day,  and,  as  usual,  was  the  first  within 
the  breakfast-room,  and  little  could  her  friends  imagine  that 
since  they  had  left  her  the  preceding  evening  she  had  made  a 
journey  to  London  and  back.  Caroline's  indisposition,  which 
had  been  evident  for  several  days,  although  she  had  not  com- 
plained till  the  day  before,  easily  accounted  for  her  return 
home,  although  the  exact  time  of  her  doing  so  was  known  to 
none  save  her  Grace  herself;  and  even  if  surprise  had  been 
created,  it  would  speedily  have  passed  away  in  the  whirl  of 
amusements  which  surrounded  them.  But  the  courted,  the 
admired,  the  fascinating  Viscount  no  longer  joined  the  festive 
group.  His  friend  Sir  Walter  Courtenay  accounted  for  and 
excused  his  absence,  by  stating  that  Lord  Alphingham  had 
received  a  disagreeable  letter  from  an  agent  of  his  in  Scotland, 
which  demanded  his  instant  presence  ;  that  he  intended  pas- 
sing through  London,  thence  proceed  to  the  North,  where,  in 
all  probability,  he  should  await  the  hunting  season,  being  en- 
gaged to  join  a  large  circle  of  noble  friends. 

It  would  be  useless  to  linger  on  the  impotent  fury  of  Lord 
Alphingham  when  he  discovered  his  well-conceived  plans  were 
utterly  frustrated,  and  that  his  intended  victim  had  eluded 
him,  under  the  stern  guardianship  of  the  Duchess  of  Rothbary. 
In  the  first  bitter  moment  of  disappointment,  he  refused  to 
accuse  Caroline  of  any  share  in  it,  but  believed  their  plans  had 
been,  by  some  unforeseen  circumstance,  discovered,  and  she 
had  been  forced  to  return  home.  If  such  were  the  case,  he 
vowed  to  withdraw  her  from  such  galling  slavery ;  he  swore 
by  some  means  to  make  her  his  own.  But  when  her  letter 
reached  him,  when  he  had  perused  its  contents,  and  marked 
that  not  one  word  gave  evidence  of  agitation  of  mind  or  tin- 
steadiness  of  purpose,  the  current  of  his  feelings  changed.  He 
cursed  his  own  mad  folly  for  thus  seeking  one,  in  whom  from 
the  first  he  might  have  seen  there  was  no  spirit,  no  quality 
suited  to  be  his  partner  in  a  fashionable  world  ;  he  vowed  to 
think  no  more  of  a  weak,  capricious  fool  so  he  now  termed  the 
girl  he  had  fancied  that  he  loved.  As  may  readily  be  imagin- 
ed, he  felt  his  self-love  very  deeply  wounded  by  the  complete 
frustration  of  his  intentions,  and  being  incapable  of  appreciating 


172  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

the  Letter  principles  which  had  fortunately  actuated  the  rcsolva 
of  Caroline,  a  spirit  of  revenge  entered  his  heart.  He  chrush- 
cd  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  paced  the  room  in  fury,  and 
would  have  torn  it  to  atoms,  when  the  thought  struck  him, 
that  by  enclosing  the  letter  to  the  confidant  and  adviser  of  his 
plans  regarding  Caroline,  he  might  save  himself  the  mortifi- 
cation of  relating  his  defeat,  and  revenge  himself  effectually 
by  exposing  her  to  ridicule  and  contempt. 

He  wrote  therefore  a  few  concise  lines,  regretting,  in  a 
slightly  satirical  style,  that  Miss  Grahame  should  have' been  so 
deceived  with  regard  to  the  views  and  feelings  of  her  friend  Misa 
Hamilton,  and  referring  her  to  the  enclosed  letter  for  all  further 
explanation. 

Annie  received  the  packet  at  the  time  she  was  in  daily 
expectation  of  the  triumph  of  her  schemes,  the  gratification  of 
her  dislike  for  the  being  whose  gentle  admonitions  she  so  mach 
resented,  which  had  been  dictated  by  Mrs.  Hamilton's  wish  to 
increase  the  happiness  of  her  parents  and  herself.  Lord 
Alphingham  had  regularly  informed  her  of  all  his  intentions, 
and  though  Caroline  had  for  some  time  entirely  ceased  to  write, 
yet  she  suspected  nothing  like  defeat.  Already  she  secretly 
indulged  in  triumph,  already  anticipated  the  moment  when 
every  malignant  wish  would  be  fulfilled,  and  she  should  see  the 
proud,  cold,  disdainful  Mrs.  Hamilton  bowed  down  beneath  the 
conduct  of  her  child,  humbled  to  the  dust  by  the  reflections 
which  would  be  cast  upon  her  when  the  elopement  of  Caroline 
should  be  made  public  ;  at  that  very  time  the  letter  of  Lord 
Alphingham  arrived,  and  told  her  of  defeat,  complete,  irreme- 
diable. Scorn,  bitter  scorn  curled  her  lip,  as  she  glanced  over 
Caroline's  epistle,  thus  dishonorably  transmitted  for  her  perusal. 
Severe  disappointment  was  for  the  time  her  portion,  and  yet, 
amid  all  these  violent  emotions,  attendant  on  one  of  her  dispo- 
sition, there  was  one  of  a  very  different  nature  mingling  with 
them,  one  that,  while  she  resolved  if  she  could  not  mortify 
Mrs.  Hamilton  as  she  had  intended,  she  would  yet  do  so  by 
insinuations  against  Caroline's  character,  whenever  she  had  an 
opportunity;  would  bid  her  rejoice,  strangely  rejoice,  that  she 
was  not  the  wife  of  Lord  Alphingham,  that  ne  was  still  free. 
While  she  looked  forward  to  that  letter  announcing  the  union 
of  the  Viscount  and  Caroline,  as  placing  the  finai  seal  on  her 
triumphant  schemes,  we  may  well  doubt  if  even  that  enjoyment, 
the  exultations  in  the  sufferings  of  another,  would  have  stilled 
the  anguish,  of  her  own  heart,  and  permitted  her  to  triumph 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  173 

as  she  intended  to  have  done,  when  the  man  she  loved  waa 
the  husband  of  another.  It  was  even  so,  though  rendered  by 
prejudice  almost  insensible  to  any  thing  but  her  hatred  of  Mrs. 
Hamilton. 

Annie  had  not  associated  so  intimately  with  Lord  Alphing- 
harn  without  feeling  the  effect  of  his  many  fascinations  ;  and, 
therefore,  though  both  provoked  and  disappointed  at  this  un- 
looked-for failure  of  her  schemes,-  she  was  better  enabled  to 
overcome  them.  Resolving  to  leave  her  designs  against  the 
peace  of  Caroline  and  her  mother  henceforth  to  chance,  all  her 
energies  were  now  put  in  action  for  the  attainment  of  one 
grand  object,  to  so  work  upoh  the  disappointed  Viscount  as 
herself  to  take  the  place  in  his  favor  which  Caroline  had  occu- 
pied. Her  reply  to  his  letter,  which  he  had  earnestly  requested 
might  enclose  Caroline's,  and  be  forwarded  to  him  in  London, 
was  guarded,  but  artfully  tending  to  inflame  his  indignation 
against  Caroline ;  suppressing  her  own  opinion  on  the  subject, 
and  exciting  admiration  of  herself,  and  perhaps  gratitude  for 
her  untiring  sympathy  in  his  welfare,  which  she  ably  contrived 
should  breathe  despondingly  throughout.  As  that  important 
affair,  she  added,  was  thus  unhappily  over,  their  correspondence 
she  felt  ought  to  cease,  and  she  begged  Lord  Alphingham 
would  write  to  her  no  more.  She  had  braved  remark  when 
the  happiness  of  two  in  whom  she  was  so  deeply  interested  was 
at  stake ;  but  as  in  that  she  had  been  disappointed,  pain  as  it 
was  for  her  to  be  the  one  to  check  a  correspondence  which 
could  not  fail  to  give  he?  pleasure,  being  with  one  so  enlight- 
ened, and  in  every  way  so  superior  as  Lord  Alphingham,  she 
insisted  that  no  more  letters  should  pass  between  them.  She 
gained  her  point;  the  Viscount  wondered  how  he  could  ever 
be  so  blind  as  to  prefer  Caroline  to  her,  and  her  words  added 
weight  to  his  resolution,  to  annoy  the  former  by  devoted  atten- 
tions to  Miss  Grahame,  and  if  it  suited  his  interests,  make  the 
latter  his  wife. 

The  interviews  Lord  Alphingham  contrived  to  have  with 
Miss  Grahame,  before  he  retired  to  Scotland,  which  he  did  not 
do  for  a  fortnight  after  his  rejection,  strengthened  the  inten- 
tions of  both.  The  Viscount  found  new  charms  in  the  reserve 
and  agitation  which  now  marked  Annie's  behavior,  in  the 
faint  voice  and  well-concealed  intelligence,  that  however  she 
might  sympathise  in  his  vexation,  for  herself  she  could  not 
regret  his  freedom.  All  this,  though  they  were  scarcely  ever 
alone,  formed  a  perfect  understanding  between  them,  and 


174  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

quickly  banished  the  image  of  Caroline  from  the  vain  and  fickle- 
minded  Alphingharn. 

Wishing  to  keep  up  her  pretended  friendship  for  Caroline, 
that  she  might  the  more  effectually  wound  her,  and  not  be- 
lieving the  sentiments  of  the  misguided  girl  were  changed  to- 
wards her  also,  Annie  called  at  Berkeley  Square  a  very  few 
days  after  Caroline's  return,  and  she  had  become  acquainted 
with  all  that  had  passed.  No  one  was  visible  in  the  drawing- 
room  ;  the  young  men,  she  knew,  had  both  arrived  from  col- 
lege, but  the  house  was  destitute  of  that  air  of  cheerfulness 
and  glee  which  generally  attended  their  return.  Some  little 
time  she  waited  with  impatient  displeasure,  which  did  not  les- 
son when,  on  hearing  the  door  open,  she  beheld  not  Caroline 
but  Mrs.  Hamilton  herself,  her  cheek  pale,  as  ,f  from  some  in- 
ternal suffering,  but  with  even  more  than  her  wonted  dignity 
both  in  mien  and  step,  and  for  a  moment  Annie  struggled  in 
vain  to  speak  with  the  eagerness  with  which  she  intended  to 
have  inquired  for  Caroline ;  before  the  mild  yet  penetrating 
glance  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  even  her  self-possession  appeared 
about  to  abandon  her.  She  felt  lowered,  humbled  in  her  pres- 
ence, and  it  was  this,  perhaps,  this  very  sense  of  inferiority, 
which  had  ever  heightened  dislike. 

Mildly,  yet  coldly  and  briefly,  Mrs,  Hamilton  answered 
Miss  Grahame's  torrent  of  questions  and  regrets  which  fol- 
lowed her  information,  that  Caroline  was  not  well  enough  to 
Bee  any  one  but  her  own  family,  and  that,  as  they  left  London 
some  little  time  sooner  than  they  had'originally  intended,  she 
had  begged  her  mother  to  tender  her  farewell.  Annie  expressed 
excessive  sorrow,  but  no  effort  on  either  side  was  made  to  pro- 
long this  interview,  and  it  was  very  quickly  over.  Annie  re- 
turned home  dissatisfied  and  angry,  determining  to  make  one 
attempt  more ;  and  if  that  failed,  she  thought  she  couhd  as 
successfully  wound  by  inuendoes  and  ridicule,  should  mere 
acquaintance  take  the  place  of  intimate  friendship. 

Miss  Grahame  accordingly  wrote  in  a  truly  heroic  and 
highly-phrased  style,  regretting,  sympathizing,  and  encourag- 
ing;  but  the  answer,  though  guardedly  worded,  told  her  too 
plainly  all  her  influence  was  over. 

"  I  am  not  strong  enough,"  wrote  Caroline,  "yet  to  argue 
with  you,  or  defend  my  conduct,  as  I  feel  sure  I  should  be 
compelled  to  do,  did  we  meet  now.  I  find,  too  late,  that  on 
many  points  we  differ  so  completely,  that  the  confidential  in- 
tercourse, which  has  hitherto  been  ours,  must  henceforth  be  at 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  175 

an  end.  Forgive  me,  dear  Annie,  if  it  grieves  you  to  read 
these  words;  believe  me,  it  is  painful. to  me  to  write  them. 
But  now  that  my  feelings  on  so  many  important  subjects  have 
been  changed — now.  that  the  blinding  film  has  been  mercifully 
removed  from  my  eyes,  and  I  see  the  whole  extent  of  my  sin- 
ful folly.  I  cannot  hope  to  find  the  same  friend  in  you.  Too 
late,  for  my  peace,  I  have  discovered  that  our  principles  of  duty 
are  directly  opposite.  I  blame  you  not  for  what  I  am,  for  the 
suffering  I  am  still  enduring,  no,  for  that  I  alone  have  caused  ; 
'but  your  persuasions,  your  representations  heightened  the  evil, 
strengthened  me  in  my  sinful  coarse.  You  saw  my  .'oily,  ard 
worked  on  it,  by  sowing  the  seeds  of  mistrust  and  dislike  to- 
wards my  parents.  I  was  a  passive  tool  in  your  hands,  and 
j  ou  endeavored  to  mould  me  according  to  your  notions  of  hap- 
piness I  thank  you  for  all  the  interest  you  have  thus  endeav- 
ored to  prove  for  me.  You  cannot  regret  withdrawing  it,  now 
I  have  in  your  eyes  proved  myself  so  undeserving.  This  is 
the  last  confidential  letter  I  shall  ever  write,  save  to  her  who 
is  indeed  my  best,  my  truest,  most  indulgent  friend  on  earth ; 
but  before  I  entirely  conclude,  the  love,  the  friendship,  I  have 
felt  for  you  compels  me  to  implore  you  to  pause  in  your  career. 
Oh,  Annie,  do  not  follow  up  those  principles  you  would  have  in- 
stilled in  me ;  do  not,  oh,  as  you  value  future  innocence  and 
peace,  do  not  let  them  be  your  guide  in  life ;  you  will  find 
them  hollow,  vain,  and  false.  Pause  but  for  one  moment,  and 
reflect.  Can  there  be  happiness  without  virtue,  peace  without 
integrity?  Is  there -pleasure  without  truth  ?  Was  deception 
productive  of  felicity  to  me  ?  Oh,  no,  no.  That  visit  to  Lon- 
don, that  introduction  in  the  gay  world,  to  which  I  looked  for- 
ward with  so  much  joy,  the  retrospection  of  which  I  hoped 
would  have  enlivened  Oakwood,  oh,  what  does  it  present?  A 
dreary  waste  of  life,  varied  only  by  remorse.  Had  my  career 
been  yours,  you  would  perhaps  have  looked  on  it  diiferently ; 
but  T  cannot.  Oh,  Annie,  once  more,  I  beseech,  let  not  such 
principles  actuate  your  future  conduct ;  they  are  wrong,  they 
will  lead  to  misery  here,  and  what  preparation  are  they  for 
eternity? 

"  Farewell,  and  may  God  bless  you  !  We  shall  not,  per- 
haps, meet  again  till  next  season,  and  then  it  cannot  be  as  we 
have  parted.  An  interest  in  your  welfare  I  shall  ever  feel,  but 
intimacy  must  be  at  an  end  between  us. 

"  CAROLINE." 


176          THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THERE  was  a  dark  lowering  frown  obscuring  the  noble  and 
usually  open  brow  of  the  young  heir  of  Oakwood,  and  undis- 
guised auger  visible  in  every  feature  and  every  movement,  as 
he  paced  the  library  with  disordered  steps,  about  ten  days 
after  the  events  we  have  recorded,  and  three  since  his  return 
from  college.  He  had  crossed  his  arms  on  his  chest,  which 
•was  swelling  with  the  emotion  he  was  with  difficulty  repress- 
ing, and  his  tall,  elegant  figure  appeared  to  increase  in  height 
beneath  his  indignant,  and,  in  this  case,  just  displeasure. 

Caroline's  depression  had  not  decreased  since  her  brother's 
arrival.  She  felt  she  had  been  unjust  to  Percy,  and  a  degree 
of  coldness  which  had  appeared  at  first  in  his  conduct  towards 
her,  occasioned,  though  she  knew  it  not,  by  her  rejection  of 
his  friend  St.  Eval,  which  he  believed  was  uccasioned  by  hei 
love  of  Alphingham,  whom  he  fancied  she  s.till  continued  to 
regard  with  an  eye  of  favor  ;  both  these  causes  created  reserve 
and  distance  between  the  brother  and  sister,  in  lieu  of  that 
cordiality  which  had  hitherto  subsisted  between  them. 

Percy  had  not  b<*en  aware  of  all  that  had  passed  between 
the1  Viscount  and  Caroline  till  that  morning,  when  Kmmeline, 
hoping  to  soften  his  manner  towards  her  sister,  related,  with 
all  her  natural  eloquence,  the  Viscount's  conduct,  and  the 
triumph  of  duty  which  Caroline  had  achieved.  That  he  had 
even  asked  her  of  his  father,  Percy  knew  not  till  then,  and  it 
was  this  intelligence  bursting  on  him  at  once  which  called 
forth  such  violent  anger.  Ernmeline  had  been  summoned 
away  before  she  had  time  to  note  the  startling  effects  of  her 
words ;  but  Herbert  did,  and  though  he  was  unacquainted 
with  the  secret  cause  of  his  brother's  dislike  towards  Lord  Al- 
phingham, he  endeavored  by  gentle  eloquence  to  pacify  and 
turn  him  from  his  purpose,  at  which  he  trembled. 

"  The  villain,  the  cold-blooded,  despicable  villain  !"  mut- 
tered Percy  at  intervals,  as  he  continued  his  hurried  pace, 
without  heeding,  perhaps  not  hearing,  Herbert's  persuasive 
accents.  "  To  act  thus  foully — to  play  thus  on  the  unguarded 
feelings  of  a  weak,  at  least,  unsophisticated,  unsuspecting  girl 
— to  gain  her  love,  to  destine  her  to  ruin  and  shame,  the  heart- 
less miscreant !  Oh,  that  my  promise  prevented  not  my  ex 
posing  him  to  the  whole  world  ;  but  there  is  another  way — the 
fillain  shall  find  such  conduct  passes  not  unheeded  !" 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  177 

"  You  arc  right,  Percy,"  interposed  Herbert,  gently  deter- 
mining not  to  understand  him.  "  If  his  conduct  be  indeed 
such  as  to  call  forth,  with  justice,  this  irritation  on  your  part, 
his  punishment  will  come  at  last." 

';  It  shall  come,  ay,  and  by  this  hand  !"  exclaimed  Percy, 
striking  his  clenched  hand  violently  on  the  table  ;  "if  his  con- 
duct be  such.  You  speak  coolly,  Herbert,  but  you  know  not 
all.  therefore  I  forgive  you  :  it  is  the  conduct  of  a  villain,  ay, 
and  he  shall  know  it  too.  Before  three  suns  have  set  again, 
he  shall  feel  my  sister  has  an  avenger !" 

'•  His  schemes  against  the  peace,  the  honor,  of  the  innocent 
are  registered  on  high  ;  be  calm,  be  satisfied,  Percy.  His  last 
hour  will  be  chastisement  enough." 

';  By  heaven,  it  shall  be  !"  retorted  Percy,  passion  in- 
creasing, it  appeared,  at  every  gentle  word  his  brother  spoke, 
and  irritating  him  beyond  control.  '*  Herbert,  you  will  drive 
me  mad  with  this  mistimed  calmness  ;  you  know  not  half  the 
injury  she  has  received." 

'•  Whatever  might  have  been  his  schemes,  they  have  all 
failed.  Percy,  and  therefore  should  we  not  rather  feel  thankful 
for  Caroline's  restoration  to  her  home,  to  herself,  than  thus  en- 
courage fury  against  him  from  whose  snares  she  has  escaped?" 

"  Yes ;  and  though  his  base  plan,  thanks  to  my  sister's 
strength  of  mind,  or,  rather,  my  mother's  enduring  counsel, 
has  not  succeeded,  am  I  to  sit  calmly  by  and  see  her  health, 
spirits,,  alike  sinking  beneath  that  love  which  the  deceiving 
villain  knew  so  well  how  to  call  forth  ?  am  I  to  see  this,  to 
gaze  on  the  suffering  he  has  caused,  unmoved,  and  permit  him 
to  pass  unscathed,  as  if  his  victim  had  neither  father  nor 
brother  to  protect  and  avenge  her  injured  honor  ?" 

'•  Her  honor  is  not  injured.  She  is  as  innocent  and  as 
pure  as  before  Lord  Alphingham  addressed  her.  Percy,  you 
are  increasing  this  just  displeasure,  by  imaginary  causes.  I 
do  not  believe  it  to  be  love  for  him  that  occasions  her  present 
suffering ;  I  think,  from  the  conversations  we  have  had,  it  is 
much  more  like  remorse  for  the  past,  and  bitter  grief  that  the 
confidence  of  our  parents  must,  spite  of  their  excessive  kind- 
ness, be  for  a  time  entirely  withdrawn,  not  any  lingering  affec- 
tion for  Alphingham." 

'•  Whatever  it  be,  he  is  the  primary  cause.     Not  injured  ! 
every  word  of  love  from  his  lips  is  pollution ;  his  asking  her 
of  my  father  an  atrocious  insult. ;  his  endeavors  to  fly  with 
her  a  deadly  sin — an  undying  staia" 
8* 


178  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Herbert  shuddered  involuntarily. 

'•  What  would  you  say,  or  mean  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  What 
have  you  heard  or  known  concerning  him.  that  calls  for  words 
like  these  ? 

"  Ask  me  not  as  you  love  me  ;  it  is  enough  I  know  he  is  a 
villain,"  and  Percy  continued  his  rapid  walk.  Herbert  rose 
from  his  seat  and  approached  him. 

"  Percy,"  he  said,  "  my  dear  brother,  tell  me  what  is  it 
you  would  do?  to  what  would  this  unwonted  passion  lead? 
Oh,  let  it  not  gain  too  great  a  dominion,  Percy.  Dear  Percy, 
what  would  you  do  ?" 

"  I  would  seek  him,  Herbert,"  replied  Percy,  <:  wherever 
he  is ;  by  whom  surrounded.  I  would  taunt  him  as  a  deceiv- 
ing, heartless,  villain,  and  if  he  demand  satisfaction,  by  heaven, 
it  would  be  joy  for  me  to  give  it !" 

';  Has  passion,  then,  indeed  obtained  so  much  ascendency, 
it  would  be  joy  for  you  to  meet  him  thus  for  blood  ?"  de- 
manded Herbert,  fixing  his  large,  melancholy  e}res  intently  on 
Percy's  face,  on  which  the  cloud  was  becoming  darker,  and  his 
step  even  more  rapid.  "Would  you  seek  him  for  the  purpose 
of  exciting  anger  like  your  own  ?  is  it  thus  you  would  avenge 
my  sister  ?" 

"  Thus,  and  only  thus,"  answered  Percy,  with  ungoverned 
fury.  "  As  others  have  done  ;  man  to  man  I  would  meet  him, 
and  villain  as  he  is,  I  would  have  honorable  vengeance  for  the 
insult,  not  only  to  my  sister,  but  to  us  all.  Why  should  I 
stay  my  hand  ?" 

"  Why  ?  because  on  you  more  than  on  many  others  has 
the  light  of  our  blessed  religion  dawned,"  answered  Herbert, 
calmly  ;  "  because  you  know  what  others  think  not  of,  that  the 
law  of  our  Master  forbiddcth  blood  ;  that  whosoever  sheds  it, 
on  whatever  plea,  his  shall  be  demanded  in  return  ;  because 
you  know,  in  seeking  vengeance  by  blood.  His  law  is  dis- 
obeyed, and  His  vengence  you  would  call  upon  yourself. 
Percy,  you  will  not,  you  dare  not  act  as  this  overwhelming 
passion  dictates." 

'•  Dare  not,"  repeated  the  young  man,  light  flashing  from 
his  eye  as  if  his  spirit  chafed  at  that  word,  even  from  his 
brother,  "dare  not;  you  mistake  me,  Herbert.  I  will  not  sit 
tamely  down  beneath  an  injury  such  as  this.  I  will  not  see 
that  villain  triumph  without  one  effort  to  prove  to  him  that  ho 
is  known,  and  make  the  whole  world  know  him  as  he  is." 

"  And  would  a  hostile  meeting  accomplish  this  ?     Would 


.   THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  179 

that  proclaim  bis  villainy,  of  whatever  rature  it  may  he,  to 
tbo  world  ?  Would  they  not  rather  side  with  him.  their  pre- 
sent minion,  and  even  bring  forward  your  unjustifiable  con- 
duct as  a  fresh  proof  in  his  favor  ?  How  would  they  give 
credit  to  the  terms  they  may  hear  you  apply  to  him,  when* 
even  in  your  own  family  you  speak  not  of  the  true  cause  of 
this  strange  agitation  and  indignant  anger." 

Percy  continued  to  pace  the  room  for  some  minutes  without 
answering. 

"  My  honor  has  been  insulted  in  the  person  of  my  sister." 
he  muttered,  at  length,  as  if  speaking  more  to  himself  than  to 
his  brother  ;  "and  am  I  to  bear  that  calmly?  Were  the  truth 
made  known,  would  not  the  whole  world  look  on  me  with  scorn 
as  a  spiritless  coward,  to  whom  tlie  law  of  honor  was  as  nothing; 
who  would  see  his  sister  suffering  from  the  arts  of  a  miscreant, 
without  one  effort  to  revenge  her." 

"  The  law  of  honor."  replied  Herbert,  bitterly  ;  "  it  is  the 
law  of  blood,  of  murder,  of  wilful  uncalled  for  murder.  Percy, 
my  brother,  banish  these  guilty  thoughts.  Do  not  be  one  of 
those  misguided  beings  who.  from  that  false  deceiving  plea,  the 
law  of  honor,  condemn  whole  families  to  misery,  and  them- 
selves, without  preparation,  without  prayer,  nay  in  the  very  act 
of  disobeying  a  sacred  commandment  of  their  God,  rush  heed 
less  into  His  presence,  into  awful  eternity." 

He  paused,  but  not  vainly  had  he  spoken.  Percy  gazed  on 
his  brother's  features  with  greater  calmness,  and  more  kindly, 
but  still  impetuously,  said — 

"Would  you  have  me  then  stand  calmly  by,  and  behold  my 
sister  a  suffering  victim  to  his  arts,  though  actual  sin,  thank 
God  has  been  spared,  and  thus  permit  that  villain  Alphingham, 
to  continue  his  course  triumphant?" 

"  Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord,  and  I  will  repay  it," 
answered  Herbert,  instantly,  twining  his  arm  within  that  of 
his  brother,  and  looking  up  in  his  face  with  that  beseeching 
glance  of  affection  which  was  so  peculiar  to  his  features.  "  Dear 
brother,  rest  on  those  words  and  be  contented.  It  is  not  for 
us  to  think  of  vengeance  or  to  seek  for  retribution  ;  justice  is, 
indeed,  ours  to  claim,  but  in  this  case,  there  is  no  point  on 
which  we  can  demand  it.  Let  Alphingham,  even  granting  you 
know  him  as  he  is,  pursue  his  course  in  peace.  Did  you  en- 
deavor to  inflict  chastisement  is  it  not  doubting  the  wisdom 
and  justice  of  the  Almighty  ?  And  suppose  you  fell  instead  of 
your  adversary,  in  the  meeting  you  would  seek — what,  think 


180  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

you,  would  be  the  emotions  of  all  those  who  so  dearly  lore  you, 
when  they  gazed  on  your  bleeding  corse,  and  remembered  you 
had  sought  death  in  defiance  of  every  principle  they  had  so 
carefully  instilled  ?  Think  of  my  mother's  silent  agony  ;  haa 
•not  Caroline's  conduct  occasioned  sufficient  pain,  and  would  you 
increase  it?  you,  whose  most  trifling  action  is  dictated  by  love 
for  her ;  you,  in  whom  she  has  every  reason  to  look  for  so  much 
virtue,  honor,  and  self-control;  whom  she  so  dearly,  so  devot- 
edly loves  ?  Remember  what  she  would  feel ;  and,  if  no  other 
consideration  have  effect,  surely  that  will  bid  you  pau^e." 

Percy  still  paced  the  room,  but  his  head  was  averted  from 
his  brother  as  he  spoke,  and  his  step  bespoke  contending  and 
painful  emotions.  He  did  not  answer  when  Herbert  ceased  to 
speak,  but  his  brother  knew  him  well,  and  remained  silent. 

"  You  have  conquered,  Herbert,"  he  exclaimed  at  length, 
firmly  clasping  his  brother's  hand  in  his  and  raising  his  head  ; 
anger  still  lingered  on  his  cheek,  but  his  eye  was  softer.  "  I 
could  not  bear  my  mother's  wretchedness;  I  could  not  thug 
repay  her  love,  her  cherished  care.  I  will  not  seek  this  base 
and  heartless  man.  I  tremble  for  my  present  resolution,  if  he 
chance  to  cross  my  path  ;  but.  for  her  sake,  I  will  avoid  him  ; 
for  her  sake,  his  villainy  shall  be  still  concealed." 

"  Endeavor  to  think  of  him  more  charitably,  my  dear  Per- 
cy, or  forget  him  entirely,  which  you  will." 

"Think  of  him  charitably;  him — a  fashionable,  fawning, 
seducing  hypocrite  !"  burst  from  Percy,  in  a  tone  of  renewed 
passion.  "No  !  the  gall  he  has  created  within  me  cannot  yet 
be  turned  ta  sweetness  ;  forget  him — that  at  least  is  impossi- 
ble, when  Caroline's  coldness  arsd  reserve  remind  me  disagree- 
ably of  him  every  day.  It  is  plain  she  looks  on  me  as  the  de- 
stroyer of  her  happiness ;  thinks,  perhaps,  had  it  not  been  for 
my  letter  my  father  would  have  given  his  consent,  and  she 
might  have  peacefully  become  the  wife  of  Alphingham.  It  is. 
hard  to  bear  uukindness  from  one  whom  I  have  endeavored  to 
preserve  from  ruin." 

-  Nay,  do  not  be  unjust,  Percy;  are  you  not  cool  and  re- 
served yourself?  How  do  we  know  why  Caroline  is  somewhat 
more  so  than  usual  ?  Poor  girl,  we  may  find  excuses  for  her, 
but  I  know  no  reason  why  you  should  treat  her  as  you  do." 

'•Her  whole  conduct  demands  it.  How  did  she  use  that 
noble  fellow  St.  Eval ;  encourage  him,  so  that  their  union  was 
confidently  asserted,  and  then  reject  him  for  no  cause  whnt« 
ever ;  or,  if  she  had  a  cause3  for  love  of  a  villain,  who,  it  ap. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  181 

p?ars,  in  secret,  possessed  all  the  favor  she  pretended  to  lavish 
on  St.  Eval, —  both  false  and  deceiving." 

'•  Percy  you  are  determined  to  be  angry  with  every  body 
to  day.  I  nattered  myself  my  influence  had  allayed  your  pas- 
sion, and  behold,  it  is  only  withdrawn  from  one  object  to  be 
hurled  upon  another.  Can  you  not  find  some  good  cause  now 
to  turn  it  from  Caroline  on  me?  Is  it  nothing  that  I  should 
dare  face  the  tempest  of  your  wrath,  and  tell  my  impetuous 
and  headstrong  brother  exactly  what  I  thought — nothing,  that 
I  should  have  ventured  to  say  there  was  a  thing  on  earth  you 
dared  not  do  ?" 

Percy  turned  sharply  towards  him,  as  if  in  that  moment 
he  could  be  angry  even  with  him ;  but  Herbert  met  his 
fierce  glance  with  a  smile  so  full  of  affectionate  interest,  that 
all  Percy's  displeasure  and  irritation  seemed  at  once  removed. 

';  Displeased  with  you  !"  exclaimed  Percy,  when  involuntary 
admiration  had  taken  the  place  of  anger,  and  unconsciously 
the  noble  serenity  of  Herbert's  temper  appeared  to  soothe  the 
more  irritable  nature  of  his  own.  'k  Ay,  Herbert,  when  we  two 
have  exchanged  characters,  such  may  be,  till  then  I  am  con- 
tented to  love  and  reverence  the  virtue,  the  gentleness  I  cannot 
make  my  own." 

••  We  are  better  thus,  my  brother,"  replied  Herbert,  feel- 
ingly ;  were  we  the  same,  could  I  have  been  the  happy  being 
you  have  made  me  at" college?  Much,  very  much  happiness 
do  I  owe  to  your  high  spirit,  Percy.  Without  your  support,  my 
life,  spite  of  the  charms  of  study,  would  have  been  a  painful 
void  at  college ;  and  though  I  feel,  you  know  not  perhaps  \\o\r 
often  and  how  bitterly,  that  in  many  things  I  cannot  hope  to 
be  your  companion,  yet  to  think  my  affection  may  sometimes 
check  the  violence  that  would  lead  you  wrong,  oh,  that  is  all  I 
can  hope  for  or  desire." 

"  Have  you  noi  my  love,  my  confidence,  my  fondest,  warm- 
est esteem  ?"  exclaimed  Percy,  impetuously,  and  twining  his 
arm,  as  in  fondness  he  often  did,  around  his  brother's  neck. 
"  Is  there  one  among  my  gay  companions  I  love  as  you,  though 
I  appear  to  seek  their  society  more  ?" 

Herbert  was  silent. 

"  You  do  not  doubt  me,  Herbert  ?'; 

"  Percy — no  !"  exclaimed  the  youth,  with  unwonted  ardor. 
To  speak  more  at  that  moment  he  could  not,  and  ere  words 
oaihe  at  his  command,  the  library  door  slowly  opened,  and 
Caroline  languidly  entered. 


182    •  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Herbert  somewhat  hurriedly  left  the  room,  to  conceal  the 
agitation  the  interview  with  Percy  had  occasioned  him. 

For  some  little  time  Caroline  remained  in  the  library, 
seeking,  it  appeared,  a  book,  without  a  word  passing  between 
her  and  Percy.  Both  evidently  wished  to  speak,  but  neither 
liked  to  begin  ;  at  length  Caroline  approached  him. 

"Percy,"  she  began,  and  her  voice  trembled  sufficiently  to 
prevent  more.  Percy  was  softened. 

*:  Well,  dear  Caroline,  am  I  so  very  terrible  you  cannot 
speak  to  me?  I  have  been  angry  and  unjust,  and  you,  per- 
haps, a  little  too  reserved;  so  now  let  us  forgive  and  forget, 
as  we  did  when  we  were  children,  and  be  friends  for  tbo 
future." 

He  spoke  with  all  his  natural  frankness,  at 4  extended  his 
hand  towards  her.  Caroline's  spirits  were  so  depressed,  that 
the  least  word  or  token  of  kindness  overcame  her,  and  pressing 
her  brother's  hand  in  both  hers,  she  turned  away  her  head  to 
conceal  the  quickly-starting  tears,  and  Percy  continued,  trying 
to  smile — 

"  Well,  Caroline,  will  you  not  tell  me  what  you  were  going 
to  say?  I  cannot  quite  penetrate  your  thoughts." 

Again  Caroline  hesitated,  but  then  with  an  effort  she  said, 
fixing  her  heavy  eyes  on  her  brother's  face — 

'•  Percy,  had  you  a  real  cause  for  writing  to  my  father  as 
you  did  some  few  weeks  ago  or  was  it  rumor  alone  which  ac- 
tuated your  doing  so'/  I  implore  you  to  answer  me  truly." 

"  I  had  all-sufficient  cause,"  he  answered,  instantly.  "  It 
was  from  no  rumor.  Do  you  think  that,  without  good  reason, 
I  would  have  endeavored  to  traduce  the  character  of  any 
man?" 

"And  Wiiat  was  that  cause?  Why  did  you  implore  my 
father,  as  he  valued  my  future  peace,  not  to  expose  me  to  his 
fascinations?" 

Caroline  spoke  slowly  and  deliberately,  as  if  every  word 
were  weighed  ere  it  was  uttered,  but  with  an  expression  on  her 
features,  as  if  life  and  peace  depended  on  his  answer. 

Percy  looked  earnestly  at  her. 

"Why  should  you  ask  this  question,  my  dear  sister?"  he 
said.  "  If  I  answer  it,  what  good  will  it  do  ?  Why  should  I 
solve  a  mystery,  that,  if  you  love  this  Alphingham,  as  this  ex- 
treme depression  bids  me  believe,  must  bring  but  increase  of 
pain  ?" 

"  Percy,"  replied  Caroline,  raising  her  head,  and  standing 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  18S 

with  returning  dignity  before  him,  "  Percy,  do  not  let  the  idea 
of  my  love  bid  you  hesitate.  Increase  of  pain  I  do  not  think 
is  possible ;  but  yet,  do  not  mistake  me,  that  pain  does  not 
spring  from  disappointed  affection.  Percy,  I  do  not  love  Lord 
Alphingham  ;  I  have  been  fascinated,  and  the  remembrance  of 
the  past  still  clings  to  me  with  remorse  and  suffering ;  but  I 
never  loved  him  as,  had  I  not  been  infatuated  and  blind,  had  I 
not  rejected  the  counsels  and  confidence  of  my  mother,  I  might 
have  loved  another.  You  know  not  how  I  have  been  'ed  on, 
how  I  have  permitted  myself  to  be  but  a  tool  in  the  hands  of 
those  whose  independence  I  admired,  and  aided  them  by  my 
own  reckless  folly — the  wish  to  prove,  however  differtatly  I 
was  educated,  still  I  could  act  with  equal  spirit.  Had  it  not 
been  for  that  self-will,  that  perverse  spirit,  I  might  now  have 
been  a  happy  and  a  virtuous  wife,  loving  and  esteeming  that 
superior  being,  whose  affections  I  wilfully  cast  away;  but  that 
matters  not  now,"  she  added,  hurriedly.  "  My  mother  was 
right,  I  was  unworthy  to  snare  his  lot ;  but  of  this  rest  assur- 
ed, I  do  not  love,  I  never  have  loved,  for  I  cannot  esteem  Lord 
Alphingham." 

"But  why  then  wish  to  know  more  concerning  him?" 
Percy  said,  .much  relieved  by  his  sister's  words,  and  more 
pleased  than  he  chose  to  appear  by  her  allusion  to  St.  Eval. 
'•  Is  it  not  enough  your  connection  with  him  is  entirely  broken 
off?" 

"  No,  Percy ;  I  have  rejected  him,  dissolved  our  engage- 
ment, I  scarcely  know  wherefore,  except  that  I  felt  I  could  not 
be  his  without  my  father's  consent ;  but  there  are  times  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  treated  him  unjustly,  that  I  have  had  no  cause  to 
think  ill  of  him  ;  my  conduct  had  encouraged  him.  To  me  he 
has  been  demoted  and  respectful,  and  though  I  could  not,  would 
not  be  his  wife,  yet  these  thoughts  linger  on  my  mind,  and  add 
most  painfully  to  the  chaos  already  there." 

Twice  Percy  slowly  traversed  the  room,  with  a  countenance 
on  which  anxious  thought  was  deeply  imprinted.  He  paused 
opposite  to  Caroline,  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  spoke  in 
a  voice  which,  though  low,  was  so  solemn  that  it  thrilled  to  her 
inmost  soul. 

"  Caroline,  I  had  hoped  the  fatal  secret  made  known  to  me 
would  never  have  passed  my  lips,  but  for  the  restoration  of 
your  peace  it  shall  be  divulged,  nor  will  the  injured  one  who 
first  intrusted  it  to  me,  to  preserve  you  from  ruin,  believe  I 
have  betrayed  her  trust.  You  have  not  suspected  the  whola 


184  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

extent  of  evil  that  would  have  been  yours,  had  you  indeed  fled 
with  that  hypocritical  villain.  Caroline,  Lord  Alphingham  is 
a  married  man — his  wife  still  lives!" 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  at  her  feet,  or  the  earth  yawned 
beneath  her,  not  more  pale  or  transfixed  would  Caroline  have 
stood  than  she  did  as  those  unexpected  words  fell  clear  and 
shrill  as  a  trumpet-blast  upon  her  tortured  ear.  Amid  all  her 
conjectures  as  to  the  meaning  of  Percy's  words,  this  idea  had 
never  crossed  her  mind  ;  that  Alphingham  couid  thus  have 
deliberately  been  seeking  her  ruin,  under  the  guise  of  lovo 
and  honor,  was  a  stretch  of  villany  that  entered  not  into  her 
conception.  Now  that  the  truth  was  known,  she  stood  as  if 
suddenly  turned  to  marble,  her  cheek,  her  very  lips  bearing 
the  color  of  death.  Then  came  the  thoughts  of  the  past ;  had 
it  not  been  for  those  recollections  of  her  childhood,  her  mother's 
love,  devotion,  what  would  she  now  have  been  ?  In  vain  she 
struggled  to  bear  up  against  that  rushing  torrent  of  thought ; 
every  limb  was  seized  with  violent  trembling,  her  brain  reeled, 
and  she  would  have  sunk  to  the  ground,  had  not  Percy,  alarm- 
ed at  the  effects  of  his  words,  led  her  tenderly  to  a  seat,  and 
kneeling  by  her  side,  threw  his  arms  around  her.  Her  head 
sunk  on  his  shoulder,  and  she  clang  to  him  as  if  evil  and  guilt 
and  wretchedness  still  hovered  like  fiends  around  her.  and  he 
would  protect  her  from  them  all.  Fire  again  flashed  from  the 
eyes  of  the  young  man  as  he  thought  on  Alphingham,  but  for 
her  sake  he  restrained  himself,  and  endeavored  by  a  few  sooth 
ing  words  to  calm  her. 

"  Tell  me  all — all  you  know,  I  can  bear  it,"  she  said  ai 
length,  almost  inaudibly,  and  looking  up  with  features  as  death- 
like as  before.  Percy  complied  with  her  request,  and  briefly 
related  as  follows : 

He  had  become  acquainted  during  his  college  life,  he  told 
her,  with  a  widow  and  her  daughter,  who  lived  about  four  or 
five  miles  from  Oxford.  Some  service  he  had  rendered  them, 
of  sufficient  importance  as  to  make  him  an  ever  welcome  and 
acceptable  guest  within  the  precincts  of  that  cottage,  which 
proclaimed  a  refined  and  elevated  taste,  although  its  inmates 
were  not  of  the  highest  class.  Both,  Percy  fancied  were 
widows,  although  he  scarcely  knew  the  foundation  of  that  fancy, 
except  the  circumstance  of  their  living  together,  and  the  hus- 
band of  the  younger  lady  never  appearing  ;  nor  was  his  name 
ever  mentioned  in  the  confidential  conversations  he  sometimes 
had  with  them,  which  the  service  he  had  had  in  his  power  to 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  185 

do  deManded.  Mrs.  Amesfort,  the  daughter,  still  possessed 
great  beauty,  which  a  shade  of  pensive  thought,  sometimes 
amounting  to  deep  melancholy,  rendered  even  more  lovely. 
Her  age  might  have  been  six  or  seven  and  twenty,  she  could  not 
have  been  more.  At  an  earlier  age.  there  was  still  evidence  that 
she  had  been  a  sparkling,  lively  girl,  and  her  mother  would 
frequently  relate  to  the  young  man  the  change  that  sorrow- 
arid  sorrow,  she  hinted,  of  a  peculiarly  painful  nature — had 
made  in  one  who,  ten  years  previous,  had  been  so  full  of  life 
and  glee.  Decline,  slow  but  sure,  it  seemed  even  to  Percy's 
inexperienced  eye.  was  marked  on  her  pale  features ;  and  at 
those  times  when  bodily  suffering  was  greatest,  her  spirit  would 
resume  a  portion  of  its  former  lightness,  as  if  it  rejoiced  in  the 
anticipated  release.  There  was  a  deep  thrilling  melody  in  her 
voice,  whether  in  speaking,  or,  when  strength  allowed,  in  war- 
bling forth  the  pathetic  airs  of  her  native  land ;  for  Agnes 
Amesfort  was  a  child  of  Erin,  once  enthusiastic,  warm,  devot- 
ed, as  were  her  countrywomen — possessing  feelings  that  even 
beneath  that  pale,  calm  exterior  would  sometimes  burst  forth 
and  tinge  her  cheek,  and  light  up  her  soul-speaking  eye  with 
momentary  but  brilliant  radiance,  and  whispered  too  clearly 
what  she  once  had  been,  and  what  was  now  the  wreck. 

The  gayety,  the  frankness,  and  unassuming  manner  of  Percy 
rendered  him  a  most  acceptable  visitant  at  Isis  Lodge,  so  the 
cottage  was  called ;  he  was  ever  ready  with  some  joyous  tale, 
either  of  Oxford  or  of  the  metropolis,  to  bring  a  sm-ile  even  to 
the  lips  of  Mrs.  Amesfort.  It  was  not  likely  that  he  should 
so  frequently  visit  the  cottage  without  exciting  the  curiosity 
and  risibility  of  his  college  companions ;  but  he  was  enabled 
cheerfully  and  with  temper  to  withstand  it  all,  feeling  secure  in 
his  own  integrity,  and  confident  that  the  situation  in  which  he 
stood  relative  to  the  inmates  of  that  cottage  was  mutually  un- 
derstood. Several  inquiries  Percy  made  concerning  these 
interesting  females,  but  no  intelligence  of  their  former  lives 
could  he  obtain ;  they  had  only  settled  in  the  cottage  a  lew 
months  previous  to  the  period  of  his  first  acquaintance  with  them ; 
and  whence  they  came,  and  who  they  were,  no  one  knew  nor 
cared  to  know.  It  was  enough  for  the  poor,  for  many  miles 
round,  that  the  assistance  of  the  strangers  was  extended 
towards  them  with  kind  words. and  consolation  in  their  troubles; 
and  for  the  Oxonians,  that  though  they  received  with  extreme 
and  even  grateful  politeness  the  visits  made  them,  they  were 
never  returned. 


185  HIE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

One  little  member  of  this  small  family  Percy  had  not  men 
tioned,  a  little  girl,  who  might  have  heen  about  eight  or  nine 
years  old,  an  interesting  child,  whom  Percy  liad  saved  from  a 
watery  grave  in  the  rapid  Isis,  which  rolled  at  the  base  of  the 
grounds  ;  a  child,  in  whom  the  affections  of  her  widowed  mother 
were  centered  with  a  force  and  intensity,  that  it  appeared  death 
itself  could  but  .divide  ;  and  she  was,  indeed,  one  to  love — 
affectionate  and  full  of  glee ;  yet  the  least  sign  of  increased 
suffering  on  the  part  of  her  mother  would  check  the  wild  exu- 
berance of  childish  spirits,  without  diminishing  in  the  least  her 
cheerfulness,  and  she  would  throw  her  arms  around  her  neck, 
and  fondly  ask.  if  she  might  by  kisses  while  awsxy  the  pain. 
Many  a  game  of  play  did  she  have  with  her  preserver,  whose 
extreme"  kindness  and  excessive  liveliness  excited  the  affections 
of  the  child,  and  increased  and  preserved  the  gratitude  his 
courageous  conduct  had  occasioned  in  the  bosom  of  that 
young,  devoted  mother,  whose  every  earthly  joy  was  centred 
in  her  fatherless  child. 

It  happened,  that  in  speaking  one  day  of  London  society, 
and  of  the  reigning  belles  and  beaux  of  the  season,  that  Percy 
casually  mentioned  the  narce  of  Lord  Alphingham,  whom  he 
declared  was  by  all  account  so  overwhelmed  with  attentions 
and  flatteries,  since  his  return  from  a  nine  years'  residence  on  the 
Continent,  that  there  was  every  chance  of  his  being  thoroughly 
spoiled,  if  he  were  not  so  already,  and  losing  every  grain  of  sense, 
if  he  had  any  to  lose.  He  was  surprised,  as  he  spoke,  at  the  very 
visible  agitation  of  the  elder  lady,  whose  cok>r  went  and  came  so 
rapidly,  that  involuntarily  he  turned  towards  her  daughter, 
wondering  if  any  such  emotion  were  visible  in  her;  and  though 
she  did  not  appear  paler  than  usual,  nor  was  any  outward 
emotion  visible,  save  that  her  arm  was  somewhat  tightly  bound 
round  the  tiny  figure  of  the  little  Agnes,  he  almost  started  as 
he  met  those  large  soft  eyes  fixed  full  upon  him,  as  if  they 
would  penetrate  his  soul ;  and  though  her  voice  was  calm,  un- 
hesitating, and  firm,  as  she  asked  him  if  he  were  acquainted 
with  Lord  Alphingham,  yet  its  tones  sounded  even  more  thril- 
ling, more  sadly  than  usual.  He  answered  truly  in  the  negative, 
adding,  he  was  not  ambitious  of  his  acquaintance  ;  as  a  ni;m, 
he  was  not  one  to  suit  his  fancy.  Many  questions  did  Mrs. 
Amesfort  ask  relative  to  this  nobleman,  and  still  unconsciously 
her  arm  held  her  child  more  closely  to  her  side.  The  elder 
lady's  looks  were  bent  on  them  both,  expressive,  it  seemed  to 
Percy,  of  fondness  for  those  two  beloved  objects,  and  struggling 
with  indignation  towards  another. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  187 

Percy  returned  to  college  that  evening  unusually  thought- 
ful. What  could  Lord  Alphingham  have  to  do  with  the  in- 
habitants  of  that  simple  cottage  ?  Incoherent  fancies  occupied 
his  mind,  but  from  all  which  presented  themselves  as  solutions 
to  the  mystery  his  pure  mind  revolted  ;  and,  compelled  by  an 
impulse  lie  could  not  resist,  he  continued  to  speak  of  Alphing- 
ham every  time  he  vi?:*od  the  cottage; — Mrs.  Amesfort,  it  ap- 
peared to  him,  rather  encouraging  than  checking  his  conversa- 
tion on  that  subject,  by  introducing  it  herself,  and  demanding 
if  his  name  were  still  mentioned  in  Percy's  letters  from  town. 
AIr.s.  Morley,  her  mother,  ever  looked  anxiously  at  her,  as  if 
she  could  have  wished  the  subject  unnamed ;  but  still  Alph- 
ingham continued  to  be  the  theme  so  constantly  discussed  at 
Isis  Lodge,  that  Percy  felt  no  repugnance  in  mentioning  those 
reports  which  allied  his  sister's  name  with  that  of  the  Vis- 
count. Again  were  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Amesfort  fixed  intently 
on  his  face,  and  she  spoke  but  little  more  during  that  evening's 
visit.  Percy  left  her.  unable  to  account  for  the  deep  and  seri- 
ous thought  imprinted  on  her  features,  nor  the  look  with  which 
she  bade  him  seek  her  the  following  day  at  an  appointed  hour, 
as  she  earnestly  wished  to  speak  with  him  alone.  The  day 
passed  heavily  till  lie  was  again  with  her.  She  was  alone  ;  and 
steady  determination  more  than  ever  marked  on  her  clear  and 
polished  brow.  She  spoke,  and  Percy  listened,  absorbed  ;  she 
alluded  to  his  preservation  of  her  child,  and,  in  that  moment 
of  reawakened  gratitude,  all  the  enthusiasm  of  her  country 
spoke  iu  her  eyes  and  voice ;  and  then  a  moment  she  paused, 
and  a  bright  and  apparently  painful  flush  mounted  to  those 
cheeks  which  Percy  had  ever  seen  so  pale.  She  implored  his 
forbearance  with  her ;  his  pardon  at  what  might  appear  an  un- 
warrantable interference  on  her  part  in  the  affairs  of  his  family  ; 
but  his  many  and  eloquent  descriptions  of  them,  particularly  of 
Ms  mother,  had  caused  an  interest  that  compelled  her  to  reveal 
a  fatal  secret  which,  she  had  hoped,  would  never  have  passed 
her  lips.  Was  it  a  mere  rumor,  or  were  Lord  Alphingham's 
attentions  marked  and  decided  towards  his  sister?  Percy  be- 
lieved there  was  very  good  foundation  for  the  rumors  he  had 
heard. 

Did  his  parents  approve  of  it  1  she  again  asked,  and  the 
flush  of  excitement  faded.  Percy  was  not  quite  sure;  he  ra- 
ther thought  by  his  mother's  letters  she  did  not,  though  Caro- 
line was  universally  envied  as  an  object  of  such  profound  at- 
tention from  one  so  courted  and  admired.  Did  his  sister  love 


tS8  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

him  ? — the  words  appeared  wrung  with  a  violent  effort  irons 
Mrs.  Aniesfort's  lips. 

Ho  did  not  fancy  she  did  as  yet ;  but  he  doubted  not  the 
power  of  Alphinghain's  many  fascinations  and  exclusive  devo- 
tion to  herself,  on  one  naturally  rather  susceptible  to  vanity  aa 
was  Caroline. 

'•Oh,  if  you  love  your  sister,  save  her  ere  it  be  too  late,  ere 
her  affections  are  engaged,"  was  Mrs.  Amesfort's  reply,  with  a 
burst  of  emotion,  the  more  terrible,  from  its  contrast  with  her 
general  calm  and  unmoved  demeanor.  "  Expose  her  not  to 
those  fascinations  which  I  know  no  heart  can  .resist.  Let  her 
not  associate  with  him — with  my  husband  ;  he  is  not  free  to 
love — I  am  his  lawful  wife  ;  and  the  child  you  saved  is  his — 
his  own — the  offspring  of  lawfully-hallowed  wedlock ;  though 
he  has  cast  me  off,  though  his  eyes  have  never  gazed  upon  my 
ohild,  yet,  yet  we  are  his.  No  cruel  words  of  separation  has 
the  law  of  England  spoken.  But  do  not,  oh  !  if  you  have  any 
regard  for  me,"  she  continued,  wildly  seizing  both  Percy's 
hands,  as  she  marked  the  dark  blood  of  passion  kindling  on  the 
young  man's  brow,  "  do  not  betray  him  ;  do  not  let  him  kno\y 
that  his  wife — his  injured  wife — has  risen  to  cry  shame  upon 
him,  and  banish  him  from  those  circles  wherein  he  is  formed 
to  mingle.  Promise  me  faithfully,  solemnly,  you  will  not  be- 
tray my  secret  more  than  is  necessary  to  preserve  your  sister 
from  misery  and  ruin.  I  thought  even  for  her  I  could  not  have 
spoken  thus,  but  I  gazed  on  my  child,  and  remembered  she  too 
has  a  mother,  whose  happiness  is  centred  in  her  as  mine  is  in 
my  Agnes,  and  I  could  hesitate  no  more.  Promise  me  you 
will  not  abuse  my  confidence,  Mr.  Hamilton,  promise  me;  let 
me  not  havi  the  misery  of  reproaches  from  him  to  whom  my 
fond  heart  sull  clings,  as  it  did  at  first.  Yes  ;  though  for  nine 
long  weary  years  I  have  never  seen  his  face  nor  heard  his  voice, 
still  he  knows  not,  guesses  not  how  his  image  dwells  within, 
how  faithfully,  how  fervidly  he  is  still  beloved.  Promise  me 
my  existence  shall  not  be  suspected,  that  neither  he  nor  any 
one  shall  know  the  secret  of  my  existence.  It  is  enough  for 
me  he  lives,  is  happy.  My  child !  could  I  but  see  her  in  the 
station  her  rank  demands, — but,  oh,  I  would  not  force  her  on 
her  father." 

She  would  still  have  spoken,  still  have  entreated,  but  this 
unwonted  emotion  had  exhausted  her  feeble  strength.  Greatly 
moved  by  this  extraordinary  disclosure,  and  struck  with  that 
lecp  devotedness,  that  undying  love,  Percy  solemnly  pledged 
lie  word  to  preserve  her  secret. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  189 

l:  My  course  will  soon  be  over,  my  sand  run  out,"  she  said, 
after  energetically  thanking  him  for  his  soothing  and  relieving 
words,  and  in  a  tone  of  such  sad,  resigned  hopelessness,  that, 
irritated  as  he  felt  towards  Alphingham.  his  eye  glistened  and 
his  lips  quivered.  "And  wherefore  should  I  dash  down  his 
present  enjoyment  by  standing  forward  and  proclaiming  my- 
self his  wife  ?  Why  should  I  expose  my  secret  sorrows,  1113' 
breaking  heart,  to  the  inspection  of  a  cold  and  heartless  world, 
and  draw  down  on  my  dying  moments  his  wrath,  for  the  poor 
satisfaction  of  beholding  myself  recognized  as  Viscountess 
Alphingham?  Would  worldly  honors  supply  the  place  of  his 
affection  ?  Oh,  .no,  no  !  I  am  better  as  I  am.  The  tears  of 
maternal  and  filial  love  will  hallow  my  grave ;  and  he,  too. 
when  he  knows  for  his  sake,  to  save  him  a  pang.  I  have  suffer- 
ed my  heart  to  break  in  uncomplaining  silence,  oh.  he  too  may 
shed  one  tear,  bestow  a  thought  on  one  who  loved  him  to  the 
last  !:: 

':  But  your  child  !"  exclaimed  Percy,  almost  involuntarily. 

"  Will  be  happier  here,  under  my  mother's  care,  uncon- 
scious of  her  birth,  than  mingling  in  a  dangerous  world,  with- 
out a  mother  to  cherish  and  protect  her.  Her  father  might 
neglect,  despise  her;  she  might  be  a  bar  to  a  second  and  a 
happier  union,  and.  oh,  I  could  not  die  in  peace  did  I  expose 
her  thus." 

Percy  was  silent,  and  when  the  interview  had  closed,  he 
bade  that  devoted  woman  farewell,  with  a  saddened  and  deeply 
thoughtful  brow. 

Lord  Alphingham  had  been  a  student  in  Dublin,  in  the 
environs  of  which  city  dwelt  Mrs.  Morley,  a  widow,  and  this 
hei  only  child.  At  their  cottage  he  became  a  constant  and 
devoted  guest,  and,  as  might  have  been  expected,  his  impetuous 
and  headstrong  nature  became  desperately  enamored  of  the 
beautiful  ai.i  innocent  Agnes,  then  only  seventeen.  Spite  of 
his  youth,  being  barely  twenty,  neither  mother  nor  daughter 
could  withstand  his  eloquent  solicitations,  and  a  private  but 
eacred  marriage  was  performed.  He  quitted  college,  but  still 
lingered  in  Ireland,  till  a  peremptory  letter  from  his  father 
summoned  him  to  England,  to  celebrate  his  coming  of  :ige.  lie 
left  his  bride,  and  the  anguish  of  parting  was  certainly  at  that 
time  mutual.  Some  few  months  Agnes  hoped  for  and  looked 
to  his  return.  Alphingham,  then  Lord  Amesfort.  on  his  part, 
was  restrained  only  by  the  fear  of  the  inveteracy  of  his  father's 
disposition  from  confessing  his  marriage,  and  sending  for  his 


190  THE  MOTHER'S  KECOMPEXSK. 

wife.  Another  bride,  of  rank  and  wealth,  was  proposed  to  him, 
and  then  he  confessed  the  truth.  The  fury  of  the  old  man 
knew  no  bounds,  and  he  swore  to  disinherit  his  son,  if  he  did 
not  promise  never  to  return  to  his  ignoble  wife,  whom  he  vowed 
he  never  would  acknowledge.  Amesfort  promised  submission, 
fully  intending  to  remain  constant  till  his  father's  death,  which 
failing  health  proclaimed  was  not  far  distant,  and  then  seek 
his  gentle  wife,  and  introduce  her  in  her  proper  sphere.  He 
wrote  to  this  effect,  and  the  boding  heart  of  Agnes  sunk  at 
once  ;  in  vain  her  mother  strove  to  rouse  her  eneigies,  by  al- 
luding to  the  strain  of  his  letter,  the  passionate  affection 
breathing  in  every  line,  the  sacred  nature  of  his  promise.  She 
felt  her  doom,  and  ere  her  child  was  six  months  old,  her  feel- 
ings, omicous  of  evil,  wore  fully  verified. 

Lord  Alphingham  lingered  some  time,  and  his  son  found, 
in  the  society  in  which  the  Viscount  took  good  care  he  should 
continually  mingle,  attractions  weighty  enough  to  banish  from 
his  fickle  heart  all  love,  and  nearly  all  recollection  of  his  wife. 
He  found  matrimony  would  be.very  inconvenient  in  the  gay 
circle  of  which  he  was  a  member.  All  the  better  feelings  and 
qualities  of  his  youth  fled ;  beneath  the  influence  of  example 
and  bad  companionship  his  evil  ones  were  called  forth  and 
fostered,  and  speedily  he  became  the  heartless  libertine  we 
have  seen  him.  His  letters  to  the  unfortunate  Agnes  were 
less  and  less  frequent,  and  at  length  ceased  altogether,  and 
the  sum  transmitted  for  her  use  every  year  was  soon  the  only 
proof  that  he  still  lived.  His  residence  in  foreign  lands,  the 
various  names  he  assumed,  baffled  all  her  efforts  at  receiving 
the  mort  distant  intelligence  concerning  him,  and  Agnes  still 
lingered  in  hopeless  resignation — "  The  heart  will  break,  but 
brokenly  live  on  ;"  and  thus  it  was  she  lived,  existing  for  her 
child  alone.  Nine  years  they  had  been  parted,  and  Agnes  had 
ever  shrunk  in  evident  pain  from  quitting  her  native  land,  and 
that  cottage  which  had  been  the  scene  of  her  brief  months  of 
happiness ;  but  when  change  of  air  was  pleaded  in  behalf  of 
her  child,  then  suffering  from  lingering  fever,  when  change  of 
climate  was  strongly  recommended  by  the  physicians,  in  secret 
for  herself  equally  with  that  of  her  little  girl,  she  hesitated  no 
longer,  and  a  throb  of  mingled  pain  and  pleasure  swelled  her 
too  fond  heart  as  her  foot  pressed  the  native  land  of  her  hus- 
band. Some  friends  of  her  mother,  unacquainted  with  her  sad 
story,  resided  near  Oxford,  and  thither  they  bent  their  steps, 
and  finally  fixed  their  residence,  where  Mrs.  Amesfort  soon 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  191 

had  the  happiness  of  beholding  her  child  restored  to  perfect 
health  and  radiant  in  beauty ;  perhaps  the  faint  hope  that 
Aiphingh&m  might  one  day  unconsciously  behold  his  daughter, 
reconciled  her  to  this  residence  in  England.  She  was  in  his 
own  land  ;  she  dMght  hear  of  him,  of  his  happiness  ;  and, 
deeply  injured  as  she  was.  that  knowledge,  to  her  too  warm,  too 
devoted  heart,  was  all-sufficient. 

Such  were  the  particulars  of  the  story  which  Percy  con- 
cisely yet  fully  related  in  confidence  to  his  sister.  '  Caroline 
neither  moved  nor  spoke  during  his  recital;  her  features  still 
retained  their  deadly  paleness,  and  her  brother  almost  involun- 
tarily felt  alarmed.  A  few  words  she  said.  &o  he  ceased,  in 
commentary  on  his  tale,  and  her  voice  was  calm.  Nor  did  her 
step  falter  as  she  quitted  the  library,  and  returned  to  her  own 
room,  when,  carefully  closing  the  door,  she  sunk  on  the  near- 
est seat,  and  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  as  if  to  shut 
out  all  outward  objects,  gave  unchecked  dominion  to  the  incon- 
gruous thoughts  occasioned  by  Percy's  tale.  She  could  not 
define  or  banish  them  ;  a  sudden  oppression  appeared  cast  upon 
her  brain,  deadening  its  powers,  and  preventing  all  relief  from 
tears.  Tlie  ruin,  the  wretchedness  from  which  she  had  been 
mercifully  preserved  stood  foremost  in  her  mind,  all  else  ap- 
pearing a  strange  and  frightful  dream.  The  wife  and  child  of 
Alphingham  flitted  like  mocking  phantoms  before  her  eyes, 
and  the  countenance  of  Alphingham  himself  glared  at  her, 
and  his  gibing  laugh  seemed  to  scream  in  her  ears,  and  trans- 
form him  into  a  malignant  fiend  revelling  in  the  misery  he 
had  created.  She  strove  to  pray,  but  vainly  ;  no  words  of 
such  soothing  and  consoling  import  rose  to  her  lips.  How  long 
she  remained  in  this  state  of  wretchedness  she  knew  not,  but 
it  was  the  mild  accents  of  her  mother's  voice  that  roused  her 
from  lu>r  trance. 

';  Are  you  not  well.  Caroline  ?  What  is  the  matter,  love  ?" 
Mrs.  Hamilton  asked,  alarmed  at  the  icy  coldness  of  her 
daughter's  hand,  and  kissing,  as  she  spoke,  her  pallid  cheek. 

Caroline  threw  her  arms  round  her,  and  a  violent  flood  of 
tears  relieved  the  misery  from  which  she  was  suffering  so 
painfully. 

"  Do  not  ask  me  to  reveal  tho  cause  of  this  weakness,  my 
dearest  mother,"  she  said,  when  voice  returned.  '•  I  shall  be 
better  now.  and  never,  never  again  shall  recollections  of  the 
past,  by  afflicting  me,  cause  you  solicitude.  Do  not  fancy  thia 
appai  ant  grief  has  any  thing  to  do  with  regret  at  my  late  de 


192  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

cision,  or  for  still  lingering  affection  ;  oh.  no,  no.  Do  not  look 
at  me  so  anxiously,  mother ;  I  have  had  a  long,  long  conversa- 
tion with  Percy,  and  that  has  caused  the  weakness  you  per- 
ceive ;  but  it  will  soon  pass  away,  and  I  shall  be  your  own 
happy  Caroline  again." 

Tears  were  still  stealing  from  those  bloodshot  eyes  ;  but 
she  looked  up  in  Mrs.  Hamilton's  face  with  an  expression  cf 
sucn  confiding  affection,  that  her  mother's  anxious  fears  were 
calmed.  She  would  not  inquire  more,  nor  question  Percy, 
when  lie'  sought  her  in  her  boudoir  before  dinner,  to  request 
that  no  notice  might  be  taken,  if  his  sister's  manner  were  that 
evening  less  calm  than  usual.  Mrs.  Hamilton  felt  thankful 
that  an  understand  ing  had  taken  place  between  her  children, 
whose  estrangement  had  been  a  source  of  severe  pain,  and  she 
waited  trustingly  and  calmly  for  time  to  do  its  work  on  the 
torn  heart  and  agitated  nerves  of  Caroline. 

To  Emmelirie's  extreme  delight,  preparations  for  their  de- 
parture from  London  and  return,  to  Oakwood  were  now  pro- 
ceeding in  good  earnest.  Never  did  that  fair  and  innocent 
face  look  more  joyous  and  animated,  and  never  had  her  laugh 
been  more  glad  ana  ringing  than  when  the  carriage  rolled 
away  from  Berkeley  (Square.  Every  circumstance  of  their 
journey  increased  their  ohudlike  glee,  every  town  they  passed 
through  was  an  object  of  interest,  and  even  the  pensive  features 
of  her  cousin  Ellen  reflected  her  unchecked  joyousness.  They 
seldom  travelled  more  than  forty  miles  a  day,  and  conse- 
quently it  was  not  till  the  evening  of  the  fourth  they  neared 
the  village,  whose  inhabitants,  clad  in  holiday  attire,  stood  at 
the  doors  of  their  houses  to  receive  them,  with  silent  and  re- 
spectful yet  very  "evident  toliens  of  joy.  The  evening  was 
most  lovely;  the  sun  had  lost  the  splendor  of  its  beams, 
though  clouds  of  every  brilliant  hue  proclaimed  the  increased 
glory  which  attended  its  hour  of  rest,  at  times  lost  behind  a 
richly  glowing  cloud,  and  then  bursting  forth  again  and  dyeing 
all  nature  with  a  flood  of  gold.  The  river  lay  calmly  sleeping 
before  them,  while  on  its  glassy  bosom  the  heavens  cast  their 
radiance,  relieved  by  the  shade  of  the  mighty  trees  that  stood 
to  guard  its  banks  ;  the  rich  foliage  of  the  trees,  the  superb 
green  of  the  fields,  in  some  of  which  the  ripening  corn  was 
beginning  to  stud  with  gold  the  varied  flowers  gemming  the 
fertile  hedge,  the  holy  calmness  of  this  summer  eve,  all  called 
forth  the  best  feelings  of  the  human  heart.  For  a  few  minutes 
even  Emmeline  was  silent,  and  then  her  clear  silvery  voice  was 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPEISSE.  193 

heard  chanting,  as  if  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  the  beautiful 
liynm  of  the  Tyrolese,  so  peculiarly  appropriate  to  the  scene. 
Ou,  on  they  went,  the  white  walls  of  the  church  peeping 
through  clustering  ivy;  the  old  and  venerable  rectory  next 
oaino  in  sight ;  a  few  minutes  more,  and  the  heavy  gates  of 
Oakwood  were  thrown  wide  to  receive  them,  and  the  carriages 
swept  along  the  well-known  entrance.  Every  tree  and  shrub, 
and  even  flower,  was  now  looked  on  by  Emmeline  and  Percy 
with  increased  and  somewhat  boisterous  expressions  of  delight. 

"  Try  if  you  cannot  be  still  a  very  short  time  longer,  dear 
Emmeline,"  whispered  the  more  restrained  Ellen,  whose  eye 
hud  caught  a  glimpse  of  Caroline's  countenance,  and  who  per- 
ceived in  an  instant  her  feelings  were  not  in  unison  with  Em- 
meline's.  She  was  right ;  Caroline  could  not  feel  as  did  her 
sister.  She  was  not  the  same  light-hearted,  innocent  being 
she  had  been  when  she  quitted  Oakwood ;  the  appearance  of 
the  horn*  of  her  childhood  vividly  recalled  all  that  had  oc- 
curred since  she  had  mingled  in  the  world,  that  world  of 
\vhich  she  had  indulged  so  many  brilliant  visions;  and  while 
Emtneline's  laugh  conveyed  gladness  in  that  hour  to  all  who 
heard  it.  Caroline  leaned  forward  to  conceal  from  her  com- 
panions the  tears  that  stole  silently  down  her  cheek. 

A  shout  from  Percy  proclaimed  the  old  hall  in  sight.  A 
group  of  domestics  stood  on  the  steps,  and  the  setting  sun 
threw  its  brilliant  hues  on  the  mansion,  as  if  with  increased 
and  unusual  lustre  that  venerable  spot  should  welcome  the  re- 
turn of  the  Hamilton  family  within  its  sheltering  walls. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

K  THERE  wants  but  the  guardian  spirit  of  yon  old  Manor  to 
render  this  scene  as  perfect  as  her  society  would  bid  the  pre- 
sent hours  roll  on  in  unalloyed  felicity  to  me."  was  Herbert 
Hamilton's  observation  some  little  time  after  their  return  to 
Oakwood.  as  he  stood,  arm  in  arm  with  his  friend  Arthur 
Myrvin,  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  which  overlooked,  among  other 
beautiful  objects.  Greville  Manor,  now  inhabited  by  strangers. 
Young  Myrvin  smiled  archly,  but  ere  their  walk  that  eve- 
ning was  concluded,  he  too  had  become  interested  in  the  being 
eo  dear  to  his  friend  ;  for  Herbert  spoke  in  perfect  confidence, 
eecur«  of  friendly  sympathy.  »  Oakwood  was  to  him  as  dear, 
perhaps  even  dearer  than  to  Emineliue,  for  his  nature  and 
9 


194  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

tastes  were  not  such  as  any  amusement  in  London  could 
gratify.  His  recreation  from  the  grave  studies  necessary  for 
the  profession  which  he  had  chosen,  was  to  wander  forth  with 
a  congenial  spirit,  and  marking  Nature  in  all  her  varied  robes, 
adore  his  Creator  in  His  works  as  well  as  in  His  word.  In 
London  his  ever  active  mind  longed  intensely  to  do  good,  and 
his  benevolent  exertions  frequently  exceeded  his  strength ;  it 
was  his  chief  delight  to  seek  the  dwellings  of  the  poor,  to  re- 
lieve distress,  alleviate  affliction.  The  prisoner  in  his  cell, 
the  bold  and  wilful  transgressor  of  the  laws  of  God,  these 
would  he  teach,  and  by  gentle  admonitions  bring  nearer  to  the 
Throne  of  Grace.  Yet  notwithstanding  the  gratification  which 
the  pursuits  of  Herbert  gave  to  his  parents,  they  often  felt 
considerable  anxiety  lest  his  health  should  suffer  from  his  un- 
ceasing efforts,  and  they  rejoiced  on  that  account  when  their 
removal  to  Oakwood  afforded  their  son  a  quieter  and  more 
healthful  field  of  occupation.  For  miles  around  Oakwood  the 
name  of  Herbert  Hamilton  was  never  spoken  without  a  bless- 
ing. There  he  could  do  good ;  there  he  could  speak  of  God, 
and  behold  the  fruits  of  his  pious  labors  ;  there  was  Mr.  How- 
ard ever  ready  to  guide  and  to  sympathize,  and  there  was  the 
field  of  Nature  spread  before  him,  to  fill  his  heart  with  in- 
creased and  glowing  adoration  and  reverential  love. 

It  was  well  for  Herbert  his  parents  were  such  as  could  un- 
derstand and  sympathize  in  these  exalted  feelings  ;  had  harsh- 
ness, or  even  neglect,  been  extended  over  his  childhood  and  his 
opening  youth,  happiness,  such  as  had  gilded  his  life,  would 
never  have  been  his. 

As  Emmeline  had  rejoiced,  so  also  might  have  Herbert,  as 
they  neared  the  gates  of  his  home,  had  there  not  been  one 
recollection  to  dim  his  happiness.  She  who  had  shared  in  all 
his  pleasures,  who  had  shed  a  charm  over  that  spot,  a  charm 
which  he  had  never  felt  so  keenly  as  when  he  looked  for  it, 
and  found  it  not ;  the  favorite  playfellow  of  his  infancy,  the 
companion  of  his  youth,  his  plighted  bride,  she  was  in  far 
distant  lands,  and  vainly  on  his  first  return  home  did  Herbert 
struggle  to  remove  the  weight  of  loneliness  resting  on  his 
heart;  he  never  permitted  it  to-be  apparent,  for  to  his  family 
he  was  the  same  devoted  son  and  affectionate  brother  he  hail 
ever  been,  but  painfully  he  felt  it.  Mr.  Myrvin  and  his  son 
were  now  both  inmates  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  family.  The  ille- 
gality of  the  proceedings  against  the  former,  in  expelling  him 
from  his  ministry  of  Llaugwillan,  had  now  been  clearly  proved, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE,  195 

for  the  earnestness  of  Mr.  Hamilton  permitted  no  delay  ;  and 
tears  of  pious  gratitude  chased  down  the  cheeks  of  the  injured 
man.  as  he  recognized  in  the  person  of  his  benefactor  the 
brother  of  the  suffering  woman  whom  he  had  sheltered,  and 
whose  bed  of  death  he  had  deprived  of  its  sting.  The  persua- 
sions of  Mr.  Hamilton  succeeded  in  conquering  his  objections 
to  the  plan,  and  he  consented  to  make  Oakwood  his  home 
for  a  short  time,  ere  he  once  more  settled  in  his  long-loved 
rectory. 

With  Arthur.  Ellen  speedily  resumed  her  place;  the  re- 
membrance of  that  neglected  little  girl  had  never  left  Mr. 
Myrvin's  mind,  and  when,  radiant  in  animation  and  returning 
health  and  happiness,  she  hastily,  almost  impetuously  advanced 
to  meet  him.  he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom  with  the  affection  of 
a  father ;  and  even  as  a  daughter  Ellen  devoted  herself  to 
him  during  his  residence  at  Oakwood.  He  had  been  the  first 
in  England  to  treat  her  with  kindness  ;  he  had  soothed  her 
childish  sorrow,  and  cheered  her  painful  duties;  he  had  been 
the  first  since  her  father's  death  to  evince  interest  for  her,  and. 
though  so  many  years  had  passed,  that  the  little  girl  was  fast 
verging  into  womanhood,  yet  such  things  were  not  forgotten, 
and  Ellen  endeavored  to  prove  the  gratitude  which  time  had 
not  effaced. 

Ellen  was  happy,  her  health  almost  entirely  restored  ;  but 
it  was  scarcely  possible  for  any  observant  person  to  live  with 
her  for  any  time,  without  noticing  the  expression  of  pensive  me- 
lancholy, of  subdued  spirit,  unnatural  in  one  still  so  very  young, 
that,  unless  animated  by  any  casual  circumstances,  ever  rested 
on  her  features.  Mr.  Myrvin  soon  noticed  this,  and  rather 
wondered  such  should  still  be,  when  surrounded  by  so  much 
kindness  and  affection.  Her  gentleness  and  controlled  temper, 
her  respectful  devotion  to  her  aunt  and  uncle,  were  such  as  to 
awaken  his  warmest  regard,  and  cause  him  to  regret  that  shade 
of  remaining  sadness  so  foreign  to  her  age.  Traces  of  emotion 
were  so  visible  on  her  cheeks  one  day,  returning  from  a  walk 
with  Mr.  Myrvin,  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  felt  convinced  the  tale 
of  the  past  had  been  told,  and  fearing  her  niece  had  done 
herself  injustice,  she  scrupled  no  longer  in  alluding  to  it  her- 
self. Mr.  Myrvin  was  deeply  affected  at  the  tale,  and  much 
relieved  when  the  whole  was  known  :  for  when  he  had  praised 
her  general  conduct,  and  approved  of  so  many  feelings  and 
Bentiments  she  had  acknowledged,  and  then  tenderly  demanded 
the  cause -of  that  depression  he  sometimes  witnessed,  Ellen 


196  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE 

had  given  vent  to  a  violent  burst  of  emotion,  and  spoken  of  a 
sin.  a  fearful  sin.  which  long  years  of  probation  alone  could 
wash  away.  Her  strong,  her  terrible  temptation,  her  extreme 
wretchedness  and  dreadful  sufferings  she  had  not  mentioned, 
and,  consequently,  when  known,  an  air  of  even  more  gentle 
and  more  affectionate  interest  pervaded  Mr.  Myrvin's  manner 
towards  her.  Hearing  her  one  day  express  an  ardent  desire  once 
more  to  visit  Llangwillan.to  see  again  her  mother's  grave,  he  ear- 
nestly entreated  Mrs.  Hamilton's  permission  for  her  to  visit  him 
for  a  few  weeks  ;  her  company  would,  he  said,  indeed  shed  a  joy 
over  his  home,  and  afford  much  pleasure  to  a  widowed  sister  who 
resided  with  him.  Mrs.  Hamilton  smilingly  consented,  and  a 
flush  of  animated  pleasure  dyed  Ellen's  cheeks  at  the  proposal. 
For  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  was  all  delight  and  anima- 
tion, when  suddenly  a  thought  entered  her  mind,  banishing 
her  unusual  mirth,  and  filling  her  eyes  with  tears.  Her  voice 
faltered  audibly,  as  she  warmly  thanked  Mr.  Myrvin  and  her 
.aunt  for  their  wish  to  increase  her  happiness,  but  she  would 
rather  not  leave  home  that  year.  The  change  was  so  sudden, 
her  manner  so  contradictory  to  her  words,  that  Mrs.  Hamilton 
believing  some  fanciful  reason  existed,  would  have  insisted  on 
her  compliance,  and  playfully  accused  her  of  unfounded  caprice. 
There  was,  however,  a  degree  of  earnest  entreaty  in  her  manner, 
that  Mr.  Myrvin  would  not  combat,  and  he  expressed  himself 
contented  with  her  promise  for  the  following  year.  Mrs. 
Hamilton  was  not,  however,  quite  so  easily  satisfied.  Ellen  had 
been  latterly  so  open  with  her,  that  any  thing  like  concealment 
in  her  conduct  gave  her  some  little  uneasiness  ;  but  she  could 
not  withstand  the  imploding  look  of  her  niece,  as  she  entreated 
her  not  to  think  her  capricious  and  wilful ;  she  was  sure  Mrs. 
Hamilton  would  approve  of  her  reason  did  she  confess  it. 

"  I  am  not  quite  so  sure  of  that,"  was  her  aunt's  smiling  re- 
ply ;  "  but,  however,  I  will  trust  you,  though  I  do  not  like  mys- 
teries," and  the  subject  was  dismissed. 

The  manners  and  conversation  of  Arthur  Myrvin -were  such 
as  to  prepossess  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  very  much  in  his 
favor,  and  strengthened  the  opinion  they  had  already  formed 
concerning  him,  on  the  word  of  their  son.  The  respectful  de- 
ference with  which  he  ever  treated  Caroline  and  Emmoline, 
often  caused  a  laugh  at  his  expense  from  Percy,  but  gratified 
Mrs.  Hamilton;  Percy  declared  he  stood  as  much  in  awe  of 
his  sisters  as  if  they  were  the  highest  ladies  in  the  land.  Ar- 
thur bore  his  raillery  with  unruffled  temper,  but  he  felt  the  dis- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  197 

tance  that  fortune  placed  between  him  and  those  fair  girls,  and 
he  hoped,  by  reserve,  to  lessen  the  danger  that  might  in  their 
society  attack  his  peace.  Emmeline  mistook  this  cautious  re- 
serve for  coldness  and  distaste  towards  women,  and,  with  the 
arts  of  a  playful  child,  she  frequently  endeavored  to  draw  him 
from  his  abstraction,  and  render  him  a  more  agreeable  com- 
panion. 

There  was  still  so  very  much  of  the  child  in  Erameline, 
though  now  rapidly  approaching  her  eighteenth  birthday,  she 
was  still  so  very  young  in  manners  and  appearance,  that  the 
penetration  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  must  not  be  too  severely  criti- 
cised, if  it  failed  in  discovering  that  intimately  mingled  with 
this  childlike  manner — the  warm  enthusiasm  of  a  kind  nature 
— was  a  fund  of  deep  reflection,  and  feelings  quite  equal  to  her 
age.  Mrs.  Hamilton  fancied  the  realities  of  life  were  still  to 
her  a  dream.  Had  any  one  spoken  to  her  of  the  marriage  of 
Emmeline  as  soon  taking  place,  she  would  have  started  at  the 
idea,  as  a  thing  for  some  years  impossible ;  and  that  her  affec- 
tions might  become  engaged — that  the  childlike,  innocent,  joy- 
ous Emmeline,  whose  gayest  pleasures  still  consisted  in  chas- 
ing with  wild  glee  the  butterflies  as  they  sported  on  the  sum- 
mer flowers,  or  tying  garlands  of  the  fairest  buds  to  adorn  her 
own  or  her  sister's  hair,  or  plucking  the  apples  from  the  treea 
and  throwing  them  to  the  village  children  as  they  sauntered  at 
the  orchard  gate — whose  graver  joys  consisted  in  revelling  in 
every  poet  that  her  mother  permitted  her  to  read,  or  making 
he!  harp  resound  with  wild,  sweet  melody — whose  laugh  was 
still  so  unchecked  and  gay — that  such  a  being  could  think  of 
love,  of  that  fervid  and  engrossing  passion,  which  can  turn 
the  playful  girl  into  a  thinking  woman,  Mrs.  Hamilton  may  be 
pardoned  if  she  deemed  it  as  yet  a  thing  that  could  no$  be ; 
and  she,  too,  smiled  at  the  playful  mischief  with  which  Emme- 
liue  would  sometimes  claim  the  attention  of  young  Myrvin,  en- 
gage him  in  conversation,  and  then,  with  good-humored  wit 
and  repartee,  disagree  in  all  he  said,  and  compel  him  to  defend 
his  opinions  with  all  the  eloquence  he  possessed. 

With  Ellen,  young  Myrvin  was  more  at  his  ease  ;  he  re- 
called the  days  that  were  past,  and  never  felt  with  her  the  bar- 
rier which  his  sensitive  delicacy  had  placed  between  himself 
and  her  cousins.  Arthur  was  proud,  more  so  than  he  was 
aware  of  himself.  He  would  have  considered  himself  more 
humbled  to  love  and  sue  for  one  raised  by  fortune  or  rank 
above  him,  than  in  uniting  with  one,  who  in  both,  Lh^ss  «&sen- 


198  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

tials  was  his  inferior.  He  was  ambitious,  but  for  honors  and 
station  obtained  by  his  ow.n  endeavors,  not  conferred  bj  ano- 
ther. From  his  earliest  youth  he  had  grown  up  with  so  strong 
an  impression  that  he  was  intended  for  the  Church,  that  ne 
considered  it  impossible  any  other  profession  could  suit  him 
better.  When  he  mingled  intimately  at  college  with  young 
men  of  higher  rank  and  higher  hopes,  he  discovered  too  late 
that  a  clergyman's  life  was  not  such  as  to  render  him  most 
happy  ;  but  he  could  not  draw  back,  he  would  not  so  disappoint ' 
his  father.  He  felt  and  knew,  to  obtain  the  summit  of  his 
desires,  to  be  placed  in  a  public  situation,  where  his  ambition 
would  have  full  scope,  required  a  much  larger  fortune  than  his 
father  possessed.  He  clothed  himself  in  what  he  believed  to 
bo  resignation  and  contentment,  but  which  was  in  truth  a  mor- 
bid sensitiveness  to  his  lot  in  life,  which  he  imagined  poverty 
would  separate  from  every  other.  Association  with  Herbert 
Hamilton,  to -whom  in  frankness  he  confided  these  secret  feel- 
ings, did  much  towards  removing  their  bitterness :  and  the 
admiration  which  he  felt  for  Herbert,  whose  unaffected  piety 
and  devotion  to  the  Church  he  could  not  fail  to  appreciate, 
partially  reconciled  his  ambitious  spirit  to  his  station.  Yet 
the  exalted  ideas  of  Herbert  were  not  entirely  shared  by  Ar- 
thur, whose  thoughts  were  centred  in  a  more  stirring  field  of 
usefulness  than  it  would  in  all  probability  be  his  to  till.  Her- 
bert combated  these  objections  with  so  much  eloquence,  he 
pointed  with  such  ardent  zeal  to  the  crown  eternal  that  would 
be  his,  when  divine  love  had  triumphed  over  all  earthly  ambi- 
tion, and  his  duties  were  done  for  love  of  Him,  who  had  or- 
dained them,  that  when  the  time  of  his  ordination  came  (which 
it  did  very  shortly  atter  the  commencement  of  this  chapter), 
he  wQuld  not  have  drawn  back,  even  had  a  more  attractive 
profession  been  offered  for  his  acceptance.  The  friendship  and 
countenance  of  Mr.  Hamilton  did  much  to  reconcile  him  to  his 
lot.  Mr.  Howard's  curate  died  suddenly,  at  the  very  time  that 
Mr.  Hamilton  was  writing  to  the  Marquis  of  Malvern,  in  Ar- 
thur's favor,  for  a  vacant  living  then  at  his  disposal.  Both 
now  were  offered  to  the  young  man's  choice,  and  Percy,  even 
Mr.  Hamilton  himself,  were  somewhat  surprised  that,  without 
a  moment's  hesitation,  he  accepted  that  under  Mr.  Howard,  iu 
the  gift  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  inferior  as  it  was  in  point  of  worldly 
prospects  to  Lord  Malvern's.  His  two  parishes  were  situated 
about  nine  or  ten  miles  from  Oakwood,  and  seven  or  eight  from 
V  «.  Howard's  rectory,  and  ere  Mr.  Myrvin  returned  to  Liang- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE  199 

willan.  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  son  settled  com« 
fortably  in  his  curacy,  performing  his  duties  to  the  approval 
of  his  rector,  and  gaining  by  his  manner  the  affection  of  his 
parishioners. 

Herbert  alone  knew  to  its  full  extent  the  conquest  his 
friend  had  achieved  over  himself.  His  inclination  led  him  to 
nmbitious  paths,  where  he  might  in  time  obtain  the  notice  of 
and  mingle  in  the  highest  ranks  ;  but  when  the  innate  noble- 
ness of  his  mind  showed  him  where  his  duty  lay.  when  con- 
science loudly  whispered  now  was  the  time  to  redeem  the  errors 
of  his  college  life,  to  prove  his  reverence  for  his  father,  to  p*-e- 
serve  the  kindness  of  those  friends,  exalted  alike  by  rank  atd 
virtue,  with  whom  he  still  might  mingle,  with  a  strong  effort 
he  banished  all  ambitious  wishes,  and  devoted  himself  heart 
and  soul  to  his  ministerial  duties. 

Herbert  would  speak  of  his  friend  at  home,  of  his  self-con- 
quering struggles,  till  all  would  sympathize  in  the  interest  he 
so  warmly  displayed,  particularly  Emmeline,  with  whom,  spor- 
tive as  she  was,  Herbert  from  his  childhood  had  bad  more 
thoughts  and  feelings  in  common  than  he  ever  had  with  Caro- 
line ;  and  now.  whether  he  spoke  of  Mary  Greville  or  Arthur 
.Myrvin.  in  her  he  ever  found  a  willing  and  attentive  auditor. 
'Whenever  he  had  ridden  over  to  Hawthorndell,  which  he  fre- 
quently did,  Emmeline  would  always  in  their  next  walk  play- 
fully draw  from  him  every  particular  of  the  "  Lone  Hermit,'1 
as  in  true  poetic  styl"  she  termed  Arthur.  But  there  was  no 
ser-ousness  in  her  converse  either  of  or  to  young  Myrvin. 
There  was  always  mischief  lurking  in  her  laughter-loving  eye ; 
always  some  wild  joke  betrayed  in  the  arch  smiles  ever  linger- 
ing round  her  mouth ;  but  mischief  as  it  was,  apparently  the 
mere  wantonness  of  childhood,  or  very  early  youth,  something 
in  that  glance  or  smile  ever  bade  young  Myrvin;s  heart  beat 
quicker  than  before,  and  every  pulse  throb  with  what  at  first 
he  deemed  was  pain.  It  was  relief  to  him  to  seek  the  quiet, 
gentle  Ellen,  and  speak  to  her  even  as  he  would  to  a  sister,  of 
all  that  had  occurred  to  him  since  last  they  met,  so  secure  was 
he  of  sympathy  in  his  future  prospects,  his  present  cares  and 
joys.  But  still  that  strange  feeling  lingered  within  his  bosom 
in  his  solitary  hours,  and  he  dwelt  on  it  much  more  than  on 
the  gentle  accents  of  that  fair  girl  whom  in  his  boyhood  he 
had  termed  his  wife  ;  and  stranger  still,  if  it  were  pain,  that  it 
should  urge  him  on  to  seek  it,  that  he  could  not  rest  till  the 
glance  of  that  eye,  the  tone  of  that  voice,  had  once  more  been 


200  THE    MOTHErv's    RECOMPENSE. 

seen  and  heard,  till  fresh  excitement  had  been  given  to  thoughts 
and  emotions  which  were  unconsciously  becoming  the  main- 
springs of  his  life. 

The  undisturbed  and  happy  calmness  of  Oakwood  removed 
in  a  great  measure  Caroline's  painful  feelings;  all  thoughts  of 
Lord  Alphingham  were  gradually  banished.  The  question 
hovr  she  could  ever  have  been  so  blind  at.  to  imagine  that  he 
had  gained  her  affections,  that  sh*  loved  him,  returned  more 
frequently  than  she  could  answer. 

But  another  vision  stood  forth  to  confront  the  darkened  Hie 
of  the  Viscount,  and  the  contrast  heightened  the  lustre  of  the 
former.  Why  had  she  been  so  mad,  so  infatuated,  as  to  re- 
ject with  scorn  and  pride  the  hand  and  heart  of  one  so  noble, 
so  fond,  so  superior  as  Eugene  St.  Eval  ?  Now  that  the  film 
had  been  removed  from  her  eyes,  that  all  the  past  appeared  in 
its  true  colors,  that  self-will  and  love  of  independence  had  de- 
parted from  her,  the  startling  truth  burst  upon  her  mind,  that 
she  had  loved,  truly  loved,  the  very  man  who  of  all  others 
would  have  been  the  choice  of  both  her  parents — loved,  and  as 
his  wife,  might  have  been  one  of  the  happiest,  the  most  envied 
of  her  sex.  had  not  that  indomitable  spirit ,  of  coquetry  urged 
her  on.  and  lowered  her  to  become  a  very  tool  in  the  hands  of 
the  artful  and  designing  Annie  Grahame. 

Caroline  loved  ;  had  she  doubted  the  existence  of  that  pas- 
sion, every  letter  from  Mary  Greville would  have  confirmed  it; 
for  we  will  not  say  it  was  jealousy  she  felt,  it  was  more  self- 
condemnation  and  regret  heightened  at  time.*  almost  into 
wretchedness.  That  St.  Eval  should  so  soon  forget  her,  that 
he  should  love  again  ere  six  months  had  passed,  could  not  fail 
to  be  a  subject  of  bitter  mortification  to  one  in  whose  bosom 
pride  still  rested.  She  would  not  have  thus  tormented  herself 
with  turning  and  twisting  Mary's  information  into  such  ideas, 
had  she  not  felt  assured  that  he  had  penctiated  her  weakness, 
and  despised  her.  Fickleness  was  no  part  of  St.  Eval's  char- 
acter, of  that  she  was  convinced ;  but  it  was  natural  he  should 
cease  to  love,  when  he  had  ceased  to  esteem,  and  in  the  society 
and  charms  of  Louisa  Manvers  endeavor  to  forget  his  dis- 
appointment. 

Through  Emmeline's  introductory  letter,  Lord  St.  Eval 
had  become  sufficiently  intimate  with  Mrs.  Greville  and  Mary 
as  to  succeed  in  his  persuasions  for  them  to  leave  their  pres- 
ent residence,  and  occupy  a  vacant  villa  on  Lago  Gua-dia. 
within  a  brief  walk  of  Lord  Delmont's,  feeling  sure  that  au  in- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPSKSW  90J 


tiniaey  between  Mrs.  Manvers's  family  and  that  of  W«.  Gre 
ville  would  be  mutually  pleasurable  and  beneficial;  Mstriendlj* 
•wishes  succeeded.  Mrs.  Greville  found  an  able  and  sympa- 
thizing companion  in  the  good-hearted,  homely  mother  of  th» 
elegant  and  accomplished  Lord  Delmont,  and  Mary's  sadness 
•was  at  once  soothed  and  cheered  by  the  more  animated  Louisa. 
whose  lot  in  life  had  never  known  those  murky  ciouds  of  sor- 
row and  anxiety  which  had  so  often  dimmed  the  youth  of  Mary. 
The  brother  of  Louisa  had  been  all  in  all  to  her.  She  felt  aa 
if  life  could  not  have  another  charm,  as  if  not  another  joy  was 
wanting  to  render  her  lot  perfect,  until  that  other  charm  ap- 
peared, and  her  ardent  fancy  quickly  knew  to  its  full  extent 
the  delights  of  female  companionship  and  sympathy.  Their 
very  dissimilitude  of  disposition  rendered  dearer  the  ties  of 
youthful  friendship,  and  Emmeline  sometimes  telt  a  pang  of 
jealousy,  as  she  read  in  the  letters  of  her  friend  the  constant 
praises  of  Louisa  Manvers,  not  that  any  diminution  of  early 
affection  breathed  in  them.  Mary  ever  wrote  so  as  to  satisfy 
the  most  exacting  disposition  ;  but  it  required  all  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton's eloquence  to  persuade  Emmeline  she  should  rather  re- 
joice than  grieve  that  Mary  had  found  some  one  to  supply  her 
place.  But  vainly  Emmeline  tried  in  playfulness  to  infect  her 
brother  Herbert  with  a  portion  of  her  jealousy,  for  she  knew 
not  the  contents  of  those  letters  Mary  ever  wrote  to  Herbert, 
or  she  would  not  for  one  moment  have  imagined  that  either 
Lord  Delmont  or  St.  Eva."  would  usurp  her  brother's  place. 

"  Few  things  would  give  me  greater  pleasure,"  one  of  Mary's 
letters  said,  "  than  to  see  the  union  of  Lord  St.  Eval  and  my 
fair  friend.  It  appears  to  me  strange  that  each,  with  affections 
disengaged,  can  remain  blind  to  the  fascinations  of  the  other. 
They  are  well  suited  in  every  respect,  and  1  should  fancy  their 
-juion  would  certainly  be  a  fair  promise  of  happiness.  I  live 
in  hope,  though  as  yet,  I  must  confess,  hope  has  but  very  little 
to  feed  on." 

St.  Eval  still  lingered  at  Monterosa,  and  it  was  well  for  the 
inhabitants  he  did,  for  an  event  occurred  which  plunged  that 
happy  valley  from  joy  and  gayety  into  wailing  and  affliction, 
and  even  for  a  brief  interval  infected  the  inhabitants  of  Oak- 
wood  with  its  gloom.  Death  came,  and  tore  away  as  his  vic- 
tim the  widow's  son,  the  orphan's  brother.  The  title  of  Del- 
mont became  extinct,  for  the  last  scion  of  that  ancient  race  had 
gone  to  his  last  home.  He  Lad  gone  with  St.  Eval  and  some 
other  young  men  on  a  fishing  expedition,  at  some  distance;  a 
9* 


202  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

sudden  squall  had  arisen,  and  dispersing  with  much  damage  the 
little  flotilla,  compelled  the  crews  of  each  to  seek  their  own 
safety.  The  sails  of  St.  Eval's  boat  were  not  furled  quickly 
enough  to  escape  the  danger ;  it  upset,  and  though,  after  much 
buffeting  and  struggling  with  the  angry  waters,  St.  Eval  sue- 
ceeded  in  bearing  his  insensible  friend  to  land,  his  constitution 
had  received  too  great  a  shock,  and  he  lingered  but  a  few  brief 
weeks  ere  he  was  released  from  suffering.  He  had  been  thrown 
with  violence  against  a  rock,  producing  a  concussion  of  the 
brain,  which,  combined  with  the  length  of  time  he  was  under 
water,  produced  fever,  and  finally  death. 

On  the  agony  of  the  bereaved  mother  and  sister  it  would 
be  useless  to  linger.  St.  Eval  forgot  his  individual  sorrows, 
and  devoted  himself,  heart  and  soul,  in  relieving  those  helpless 
sufferers,  in  which  painful  task  he  was  ably  seconded  by  Mary 
and  her  mother,  whose  letters  to  their  friends  at  Oakwood,  in 
that  season  of  affliction,  spoke  of  him  in  a  manner  that,  uncon- 
sciously to  themselves,  confirmed  every  miserable  suspicion  in 
Caroline's  mind,  and  even  excited  some  such  feeling  in  her  pa- 
rents, whose  disappointment  was  thus  vividly  recalled.  That 
he  should  ever  seek  their  child  again  they  deemed  impossible, 
as  did  Caroline  herself;  but  still  it  was  in  vain  they  endeavor- 
ed to  look  with  any  degree  of  pleasure  to  his  union  with  ano- 
ther. 

Mr.  Hamilton's  family  mourned  Lord  Delmont's  early  fate 
with  sincere  regret,  though  they  had  known  but  little  of  him : 
but  about  this  time  the  thoughts  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  were  turn- 
ed in  another  direction,  by  a  circumstance  which  caused  unaf- 
fected sorrow  in  her  daughter  and  niece  ;  nor  were  she  and  her 
husband  exempt.  Lucy  Harcourt  had  been  so  many  years!  a 
member  of  the  family,  she  had  been  so  associated  from  their 
infancy  in  the  affections  of  her  pupils,  that  to  part  from  her 
was  the  bitterest  pang  of  sorrow  that  Emmeline  had  yet  known, 
and  it  was  long  before  Mrs.  Hamilton  herself  could  be  recon- 
ciled to  the  idea  of  separation ;  she  had  ever  regarded  and 
treated  Miss  Harcourt  as  a  sister,  and  intended  that  even  when 
her  family  were  settled,  she  should  never  want  another  home, 
[t  was  not  only  her  own  virtues  that  had  endeared  her  to  Mrs. 
Hamilton  ;  the  services  she  had  rendered  her  children,  her  ac- 
tive and  judicious  share  in  the  arduous  task  of  education,  de- 
manded and  received  from  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  the  meed 
of  gratitude  and  esteem,  and  never  once,  in  the  seventeen  years 
of  Miss  Harcourt's  residence  amongst  them,  had  they  regretted 


THE  CITHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  203 

the  impulse  which  had  offered  her  a  sheltering  home  and  sym- 
pathizing friends. 

Emmclinc  and  Ellen  were  still  herpupils,  and  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton intended  them  to  remain  so  for  two  or  three  years  longer, 
even  after  they  were  introduced,  and  it  was  on  that  account 
Miss  Harcourt  hesitated  in  complying  with  the  earnest  entrea- 
ty of  him  whose  happy  home  in  her  early  youth  she  had  so  no- 
bly quitted,  preferring  to  live  by  her  own  exertions  than  to 
share  the  houie  of  the  man  she  loved,  when  he  was  married  to 
another. 

It  had  been  very,  very  long  ere  disappointed  affection  had 
permitted  her  to  be  cheerful.  Her  cousin,  while  rejoicing  in 
the  happy  home  she  had  found,  while  congratulating  her  "vith 
frat.  rnal  interest  on  the  kind  friends  her  mother's  virtues  had 
procured  her,  imagined  not  the  agony  she  was  striving  to  con- 
quer, the  devoted  love  for  him  which  disturbed  the  peace 
around  her,  which  otherwise  she  might  have  enjoyed  to  its  full 
extent;  but  she  did  conquer  at  length.  That  complete  sepa- 
ration from  him  di'd  much  towards  restoring  peace,  although 
perhaps  love  might  still  have  lingered  ;  for  what  absence,  what 
distance,  can  change  a  woman's  heart?  Yet  it  interfered  no 
longer  with  happiness,  and  she  answered  Seymour's  constant 
and  affectionate  letters  in  his  own  style,  as  a  sister  would  have 
done. 

Sixteen  yeari  had  passed,  and  not  once  had  the  cousins 
met.  Womanhood  in  its  maturity  was  now  Lucy's,  every 
girlish  feeling  had  fled,  and  she  perhaps  thought  young  affec- 
tions had  gone  also,  but  her  cheek  flushed,  and  every  pulse 
throbbed,  when  she  opened  a  long,  long  expected  letter,  and 
found  her  cousin  was  a  widower  in  declining  health,  which 
precluded  him  from  attending  to  his  two  motherless  girls,  im- 
~>loring  her.  as  her  duties  in  Mrs.  Hamilton's  family  were 
nearly  over,  to  leave  England  and  be  the  guardian  spirit  of 
his  home,  to  comfort  his  affliction,  to  soothe  his  bodily  suffer- 
inir.  and  learn  to  know  and  love  his  children,  ere  they  were 
fatherless  as  well  as  motherless,  and  deprived  of  every  friend 
save  the  aunt  Lucy  they  had  been  taught  to  love,  although  to 
them  unknown.  The  spirit  of  deep  melancholy  breathing 
through  this  epistle,  called  forth  for  a  few  minutes  a  burst  of 
tears  from  her  who  for  so  many  years  had  checked  all  selfish 
grief. 

•'  If  I  can  comfort  him,  teach  his  children  to  love  me,  and 
be  their  mother  now  they  are  orphans,  oh,  I  shall  not  have 


204  THE  MOTHERS  RECOMPENSE. 

V 

lived  in  vain."  Such  were  the  words  that  escaped  her  lips  as 
she  ceased  to  weep,  and  sat  a  few  minutes  in  thought,  then 
Bought  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  imparted  all  to  her.  Mrs  Hamil- 
ton hesitated  not  a  moment  in  her  decision.  Her  own  regret 
at  parting  with  her  friend  interfered  not  an  instant  with  the 
measure  she  believed  would  so  greatly  tend  to  the  happiness 
of  Miss  Harcourt.  Mr.  Hamilton  seconded  her ;  but  the 
sorrow  at  separation,  which  was  very  visible  in  the  midst  of 
their  exertions  for  her  welfare,  both  gratified  and  affected 
Lucy.  Never  had  she  imagined  how  dear  she  was  to  her 
pupils  till  the  time  of  separation  came ;  and  when  she  quitted 
England,  it  was  with  a  heart  swelling  with  interest  and  affec- 
tion for  those  she  had  left,  and  the  fervent  prayer  that  they 
might  meet  again. 

Mr.  Seymour  had  said,  were  it  not  for  his  declining  health, 
which  forbade  the  exertion  of  travelling,  he  would  have  come 
for  her  himself;  but  if  she  would  only  consent  to  his  proposal, 
if  she  could  resign  such  kind  friends  to  devote  herself  to  an 
irritable  and  ailing  man,  he  would  send  one  under  whose  escort 
she  might  safely  travel.  Miss  Harcourt  declined  that  offer, 
for  Mr.  Hamilton  and  Percy  had  both  declared  their  intention 
of  accompanying  her  as  far  as  Paris,  and  thence  to  Geneva, 
w^iere  Mr.  Seymour  resided. 

It  was  long  ere  Mr.  Hamilton's  family  became  reconciled 
to  this  change  ;  Oakwood  appeared  so  strange  without  the 
kind,  the  gentle  Miss  Harcourt,  whose  steady  yet  mild  firm- 
ness had  so  ably  assisted  Mrs.  Hamilton  in  the  rearing  of  her 
now  blooming  and  virtuous  family.  It  required  some  exer- 
tion, not  only  in  Emmeline  but  in  Ellen,  to  pursue  their 
studies  with  v^y  perseverance,  now  that  tho  dear  friend  who 
had  directed  and  encouraged  them  had  departed.  Ellen'? 
grateful  affection  had  the  last  few  years  been  returned  with 
equal  warmth  ;  that  prejudice  which  had  at  first  characterized 
Miss  Harcourt's  feelings  towards  her  had  entirely  vanished 
during  her  sufferings,  and  a  few  days  before  her  departure, 
Lucy  with  much  feeling  had  aMnitted  the  uncalled  for  harsh- 
ness with  which  she  too  had  treated  her  in  her  months  of 
misery,  and  playfully,  yet  earnestly  asked  her  forgiveness. 
They  were  alone,  and  Elk-n's  only  answer  had  been  to  throw 
herself  on  her  friend's  neck  and  weep. 

Before  Christmas  came,  however,  these  painful  feelings  had 
been  conquered.  Pleasing  letters  from  Miss  Harcourt  arrived 
by  almost  every  post  for  one  or  other  of  the  inmates  of  Oak- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  205 

wood,  and  their  contents  breathing  her  own  happiness,  and  the 
warmest,  most  affectionate  interest  in  the  dear  ones  she  had 
left,  satisfied  even  Enmieline,  from  whom  a  fortnight's  visit 
from  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Elmore  had  banished  all  re- 
main  ing  trace  of  sadness.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  wel 
coined  but  very  few  resident  visitors  to  Oakwood  during  th<? 
early  years  of  their  children,  but  now  it  was  with  pleasure  they 
exercised  the  hospitality  so  naturally  their  own,  and  received 
in  their  own  domains  the  visits  of  their  most  intimate  friends 
cf  London  ;  but  these  visits  afford  us  no  matter  of  entertain- 
ment, nor  enter  much  into  the  purpose  of  this  history.  A 
large  party  was  never  collected  within  the  walls  of  Oakwood  ; 
the  intimate  friends  of  Mr.  Hamilton  were  but  few,  for  it  wag 
only  those  who  thought  on  the  essentials  of  life  as  himself  with 
whom  he  mingled  in  the  familiar  position  of  host.  The  Mar- 
quis of  Malvern's  family  alone  remained  to  spend  Christmas 
with  them,  and  added  much  to  the  enjoyment  of  that  domestic 
circle.  Their  feelings  and  pursuits  were  in  common,  for  the 
Marchioness  of  Malvern  was  a  mother  after  Mrs.  Hamilton's 
own  stamp,  and  her  children  had  benefited  by  similar  princi- 
ples ;  the  same  confidence  existed  between  them.  The  Mar- 
chioness had  contrived  to  win  both  the  reverence  and  affection 
of  her  large  family,  though  circumstances  had  prevented  her 
devoting  as  much  of  her  own  time  and  care  on  their  education 
as  had.  Mrs.  Hamilton.  Her  eldest  daughter  was  married  ; 
her  second,  some  few  years  older  than  Caroline,  was  then  stay- 
ing with  her,  and  ooly  one  of  the  three  who  accompanied  her 
to  Oakwood  was  as  yet  introduced.  Lady  Florence  was  to 
make  her  debut  the  following  season,  with  Emmeline  Hamil- 
ton ;  and  Lady  Emily  was  still,  when  at  home,  under  the  su- 
perintendence of  a  governess  and  masters.  Lord  Louis,  the 
Marchioness's  youngest  child,  a  fine  lad  of  sixteen,  with  his 
tutor,  by  Mr.  Hamilton's  earnest  desire,  also  joined  their  happy 
party,  and  by  his  light-hearted  huu.-or  and  fun,  added  not  a 
little  to  the  amusements  of  the  evening.  But  it  was  Lady 
Gertrude,  the  eldest  of  the  three  sisters  then  at  Oakwood.  that 
Mrs.  Hamilton  earnestly  hoped  might  take  the  place  Annie 
Grahame  had  once  occupied  in  Caroline's  affections.  Hers  was 
a  character  much  resembling  her  brother's,  St.  Eval,  to  whom 
her  features  also  bore  a  striking  resemblance.  She  might,  at 
a  first  introduction,  have  been  pronounced  proud,  but,  as  is 
often  the  case,  reserve  was  mistaken  for  pride.  Yet  in  her 
domestic  circle  she  was  ever  the  gayest,  and  the  first  to  con- 


206  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

tribute  to  general  amusement.  In  childhood  she  had  stood  in 
a  degree  alone,  for  her  elder  sisters  were  four  or  five  years 
older  than  herself,  and  Florence  and  Emily  four  and  five  yeara 
younger.  She  had  learned  from  the  first  to  seek  no  sympathy, 
and  her  strong  feelings  might  perhaps,  by  being  constantly 
smothered,  at  length  have  perished  within  her.  and  left  her  the 
cold  unloving  character  she  appeared  to  the  world,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  devoted  affection  of  her  brother  Eugene,  in  whom 
she  soon  learned  to  confide  every  emotion  as  it  rose,  at  that 
age  when  girls  first  become  sensible  that  they  are  thinking  and 
feeling  beings.  They  quickly  became  sensible  that  in  almost 
every  point  they  were  kindred  souls,  and  the  names  of  Eugene 
and  Gertrude  were  ever  heard  together  in  their  family.  Their 
affection  was  at  length  a  proverb  among  their  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  perhaps  it  was  this  great  similarity  of  disposition 
and  the  regard  felt  for  her  noble  brother,  that  first  endeared 
Gertrude  to  Mrs.  Hamilton,  whose  wishes  with  regard  to  her 
and  Caroline  promised  fulfilment.  Some  chord  of  sympathy 
had  been  struck  within  them,  and  they  were  very  soon  attached 
companions,  although  at  first  Lady  Gertrude  had  hesitated,  for 
she  could  not  forget  the  tale  of  scornfully-rejected  love  im- 
parted to  her  by  her  brother.  She  had  marked  the  conduct  of 
Caroline  from  the  beginning.  She  too  had  hoped  that  in  her 
she  might  have  welcomed  a  sister,  although  her  observant  eye 
had  marked  some  defects  in  her  character  which  the  ardent 
St.  Eval  had  not  perceived.  Coolness  during  the  past  season 
had  subsisted  between  them,  for  Caroline  had  taken  no  trouble 
to  conquer  Lady  Gertrude's  reserve,  and  the  latter  was  too 
proud  to  make  advances.  In  vain  Lord  St.  Eval  had  wished 
a  better  understanding  should  exist  between  them;  while  Car- 
oline was  under  the  influence  of  Miss  Grahame,  it  was  impos- 
sible for  her  to  associate  in  sympathy  with  Lady  Gertrude 
Lyle  ;  yet  now  that  they  mingled  in  the  intimacy  of  home, 
now  the  true  character  of  Caroline  was  apparent,  that  Lady 
Gertrude  had  time  and  opportunity  to  remark  her  devotion  to 
her  parents,  more  particularly  to  her  mother,  her  affectionate 
kindness  to  her  brothers  and  Krameline  and  Ellen,  her  very 
many  sterling  virtues,  which  had  previously  been  concealed, 
but  which  were  discovered  by  the  tributes  of  grateful  affection 
constantly  offered  to  her  by  tLe  inhabitants  of  the  village,  by 
the  testimony  of  Mr.  Howard,  the  self-conquests  of  temper  and 
inclination  for  the  sake  of  others,  which  the  penetrating  eye 
of  Lady  Gertrude  4iw<x?ared,  and,  above  all,  the  spirit  of  piety 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE  207 

and  meekness  which  now  characterized  her  actions,  all  bade  the 
sister  of  St.  Eval  reproach  herself  for  condemning  without  suf- 
ficient evidence.  For  her  conduct  to  her  brother  there  was  in- 
deed no  excuse,  and  on  that  subject  alone,  with  regard  to  Car- 
oline. Lady  Gertrude  felt  bewildered,  and  utterly  unable  to 
comprehend  her.  It  was  a  subject  on  which  neither  chose  to 
speak,  for  it  was  a  point  of  delicacy  to  both.  Had  Lady  Ger- 
trude been  excluded  from  her  brother's  confidence,  she  too 
might  have  spoken  as  carelessly  and  admiringly  of  him  is  his 
sisters  constantly  did  ;  but  she  could  not  so  address  the  girl 
who  had  rejected  him ;  it  would  be  pleading  his  cause,  from 
which  she  revolted  with  a  repugnance  natural  to  her  high- 
minded  character. 

"  If  he  still  love  her,  as  his  letters  would  betray,  let  him 
come  and  plead  his  own  cause  ;  never  will  I  say  any  thing  that 
can  make  Caroline  believe  I  am  in  secret  negotiating  for  him." 

Such  was  the  thought  that  ever  checked  her,  when  about 
to  speak  of  him  in  the  common  course  of  conversation,  and  baf- 
fled all  Caroline's  secret  wishes  that  she  would  speak  in  his 
praise  as  her  sisters  and  Lord  Louis  so  constantly  did. 

But  even  as  delicacy  prevented  all  allusion  to  him  from  the 
lips  of  Lady  Gertrude,  so  it  actuated  Caroline  with  perhaps 
even  greater  force.  Would  she  betray  herself,  and  confess 
that  she  repented  her  rejection  of  St.  Eval  ?  would  she  by  word 
or  deed  betray  that,  would  he  return  to  her,  she  would  be  his  own, 
and  feel  blessed  in  his  affections  ?  She  shrunk  almost  in  horror 
from  doing  so,  and  roused  her  every  energy  to  conceal  and  sub- 
due every  emotion,  till  she  could  hear  his  name  with  compo- 
sure. Yet  more  than  once  had  Lady  Gertrude,  as  she  silently 
watched  her  countenance,  fancied  she  perceived  sufficient  evi- 
dence to  bid  her  wonder  what  could  have  induced  Caroline's 
past  conduct,  to  imagine  that,  if  St.  Eval  could  forget  that,  he 
might  be  happy  yet ;  and  for  his  sake,  conquering  her  scruples, 
once  she  spoke  openly  of  him,  when  she  and  Caroline  were 
visiting  some  poor  cottagers  alone.  She  spoke  of  his  character, 
many  points  of  which,  though  she  admired,  she  regretted,  as 
rendering  him  less  susceptible  of  happiness  than  many  who 
were  less  gifted.  "Unless  he  find  a  wife  to  love  him  as  he 
loves — one  who  will  devote  herself  to  him  alone,  regardless  of 
rank  or  fortune,  Eugene  never  can  be  happy  ;  and  if  he  pass 
through  life,  unblest  by  the  dearest  and  nearest  ties,  he  will  be 
miserable"  So  much  she  did  say,  and  added  her  earnest 
wishes  for  his  welfare,  in  a  tone  that  caused  the  tears  to  spring 


208  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

to  the  eyes  of  her  companion,  who  permitted  her  to  speak  foi 
some  time  without  in  any  way  replying. 

"What  a  pity  you  are  his  sister,"  she  replied,  rallying  all 
her  energies  to  speak  frankly  and  somewhat  sportively  j  ';  a 
woman  like  yourself  is  alone  worthy  of  Lord  St.  Eval.!I 

'•  You  are  wrong,"  replied  Lady  Gertrude*  sadly  ;  "  I  am 
much  too  cold  and  reserved  to  form,  as  a  wife,  the  happiness 
of  such  a  character  as  my  brother's.  We  have  grown  together 
from  childhood,  we  have  associated  more  intimately  and  affec- 
tionately with  each  other  than  with  any  other  member?  of  our 
family,  and  therefore  Eugene  knows  and  loves  me.  The  wife 
of  St.  Eval  should  be  of  a  disposition  as  ingenuous  and  open 
as  his  is  reserved ;  her  affection,  her  sympathy,  must  make  hig 
felicity.  He  is  grave — too  grave  ;  she  should  be  playful,  but 
not  childish.  Even  if  she  have  some  faults,  with  the  love  for 
which  my  brother  pines,  the  ingenuousness  unsullied  by  the 
most  trifling  artifice,  her  very  faults  would  bind  her  more 
closely  to  him." 

Caroline  was  silent,  and  Lady  Gertrude  soon  after  changed 
the  subject.  Had  she  heard  no  reports  of  Caroline's  prefer- 
ence of  Lord  Alphingham,  of  the  affair  which  had  somewhat 
hurried  Mr.  Hamilton's  departure  from  London,  that  conversa- 
tion would  have  confirmed  her  suspicions,  that  her  brother  was 
no  subject  of  indifference  to  Caroline.  She  longed  for  her  to 
be  candid  with  her,  to  hear  the  whole  truth  from  her  own  lips. 
The  happiness  of  the  young  Earl  was  so  dear  to  her,  that  she 
would  have  done  much,  very  much  to  secure  it ;  yet  so  far  she 
could  not  force  herself  to  go,  particularly  as  he  had  given  her 
no  charge  to  do  so.  She  little  knew  that  Caroline  would  have 
given  worlds,  had  they  been  at  her  disposal,  to  have  confided 
all  to  her :  her  repentance,  her  folly,  her  earnest  prayers  for 
amendment,  to  become  at  length  worthy  of  St.  Eval.  Caroline 
loved,  truly  loved,  because  she  esteemed,  Lady  Gertrude ;  her 
friendship  for  her  differed  as  much  from  that  she  believed  she 
had  felt  for  Annie  Grahame,  as  her  regard  for  St.  Eval  was 
unlike  that  which  Lord  Alphingham  had  originated.  Once, 
the  superiority  of  Lady  Gertrude's  character  would  have  ren- 
dered her  an  object  of  almost  dislike  to  Caroline,  as  possessing 
virtues  she  admired  but  would  not  imitate.  Now  those  vir- 
tues were  appreciated,  her  own  inferiority  was  felt  more  pain- 
fully; and  while  associating  with  her,  the  recollections  of  the 
past  returned  more  than  ever,  embittered  by  remorse.  Sir 
George  Wilmot  and  Lilla  Graham  were  also  guests  at  Oak 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  209 

wood.  The  former  declared  he  bad  seldom  anchored  in  moor- 
ings so  congenial  to  his  taste.  In  Lilla  the  effects  of  happi- 
ness and  judicious  treatment  were  already  distinctly  visible. 
The  young  men  spent  the  Christmas  recess  at  home,  and  added 
much  to  the  hilarity  of  their  domestic  circle;  nor  must  we 
forget  Arthur  Myrvin,  who  spent  as  much  of  his  time  at  Oak- 
wood,  as  his  duties  permitted ;  the  friendship  of  Herbert 
Hamilton  doing  much  to  remove  the  bitter  feelings  which  often 
still  possessed  him.  He  would  at  first  have  shunned  the  invi- 
tation, but  vainly  he  strove  to  do  so ;  for  there  was  one  fair 
object  there  who  held  him  with  an  iron  chain,  which  excited 
while  it  bound  him.  He  could  not  break  it  asunder,  though 
peace  he  felt  was  flying  from  his  grasp. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  GERTRUDE'S  letters  this  morning  have  brought  her  some  ex- 
traordinarily agreeable  tidings,"  exclaimed  Lady  Florence  Lvle, 
gayly,  as  her  sister  entered  the  breakfast-room,  rather  later 
than  usual. 

"  On  my  honor,  her  countenance  is  rather  a  clearer  index 
than  usual  to-day,"  observed  the  Marquis,  laughing.  "  Well, 
Gertrude,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  News  from  Eugene,"  exclaimed  Lady  Emily  and  Lord 
Louis  in  a  breath  ;  '•  he  is  going  to  be  married.  Either  Miss 
Manvers  or  Miss  Greville  have  consented  to  take  hiurfor  bet- 
ter or  worse."  added  Lord  Louis,  laughing.  K  Gertrude,  allow 
me  to  congratulate  you  on  the  gift  of  a  new  sister,  who,  as  the 
wife  of  my  right  honorable  brother  the  Earl  of  St.  Eval,  will 
be  dearer  tc  you  than  any  other  bearing  the  same  relationship." 

"  Reserve  your  congratulations,  Louis,  tiy  they  are  needed," 
replied  Lady  Gertrude,  fixing  her  eyes  steadily  on  Caroline's 
face,  which  was  rapidly  changing  from  pale  to  crimson. 

"  I  have  no  such  exciting  news  to  communicate,"  she  added, 
very  quietly.  ':  Eugene  is  in  England,  and  alone.'1 

-In  England!"  repeated  Percy,  starting  up;  "I  am  de- 
lighted to  hear  it.  I  just  know  enough  of  him  to  wish  most 
ardently  to  know  more.  Will  he  not  join  us?  He  surely 
will  not  winter  at  Castle  Malvern  alone,  like  a  hermit,  sur- 
rounded by  snows;  if  he  do,  he  is  a  bachelor  confirmed  :  not 
a  hope  for  his  restoration  to  the  congenial  warmth  of  life." 

"  He  has  no  such  intention  "  replied  Lady  Gertrude,  emil- 


210  THE    MOTHEE/S    RECOMPENSE. 

ing ;  "  our  present  happy  circle  has  too  many  attractions  tc 
permit  his  resting  quietly  in  solitude,  and,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton's  kind  permission,  will  join  us  here  by  Christmas 
Eve." 

"  There  are  few  whom  we  shall  be  so  pleased  to  welcome  as 
my  noble  young  friend  St.  Eval,"  answered  Mr.  Hamilton,  in- 
stantly ;  '•  few  whose  society  I  so  much  prize,  both  for  myself 
and  my  sons." 

"  And  the  minstrel's  harp  shall  sleep  no  more,  but  wake 
her  boldest  chords  to  welcome  such  a  guest  to  Oakwood's  aged 
walls,"  exclaimed  Emmeline.  gayly. 

"  Thus  I  give  you  leave  to  welcome  him.  but  if  he  take  my 
place  with  you  in  our  evening  walks,  I  shall  wish  him  back 
again  at  Monterosa  in  a  twinkling."  observed  Lord  Louis,  hi 
the  same  gay  tone,  and  looking  archly  at  his  fair  companion  ; 
"  when  Eugene  appears  my  reign  is  always  over." 

"  Louis.  I  shall  put  you  under  the  command  of  Sir  George 
Wilmot,"  said  his  father,  laughing,  however,  with  the  rest  of 
the  circle. 

"  Ay,  ay,  do  ;  the  sea  is  just  the  berth  for  such  youngsters 
as  these,"  remarked  the  old  Admiral,  clapping  his  hand  kindly 
on  the  lad's  shoulder. 

While  such  badinage  was  passing,  serious  thoughts  were 
occupying  the  minds  of  more  than  one  individual  of  that 
circle.  It  would  be  difficult  to  define  the  feelings  of  Caroline 
as  she  heard  that  St.  Eval  was  in  England,  and  coming  to  Oak- 
wood.  Had  he  so  soon  conquered  his  affections,  that  he  could 
associate  with  her  on  terms  of  friendly  intimacy?  She  longed 
to  confess  to  her  mother  her  many  conflicting  feelings  ;  she 
felt  that  her  earnest  prayers  were  her  own,  but  shame  pre- 
vented all  disclosure.  She  could  not  admit  that  she  now  loved 
that  very  man  whom  she  had  once  treated  with  such  contempt 
and  scorn,  rejected  with  proud  indifference.  Even  her  mother, 
her  fond  mother,  would  say  her  present  feelings  were  a  just 
punishment  fer  the  past ;  and  that  she  could  not  bear.  In- 
wardly she  resolved  that  not  a  word  should  pass  her  lips ;  she 
would  suffer  unshrinkingly,  and  in  silence. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  the  Marquis  and  Marchioness 
of  Malvcrn  also  became  engrossed  with  the  same  subject;  the 
latter  had  seen  and  highly  approved  of  their  son's  attentions  to 
Caroline,  and  appeared  gratified  by  the  manner  in  which  she 
accepted  them.  Disappointment  and  indignation  for  a  time 
succeeded  the  young  Earl's  departure  for  the  Continent,  but 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  211 

the  friendship  so  long  subsisting  between  the  families  pn  vented 
all  unpleasant  feeling,  except,  perhaps,  a  little  towards  Caro- 
line herself.  They  gladly  welcomed  the  intelligence  that  St. 
Eval  was  in  England,  and  wished  to  join  them  at  Oakwood, 
for  they  hailed  it  as  a  sign  that  his  fancy  had  been  but  fleet- 
ing, and  was  now  entirely  conquered.  Mr.  and  Mrs  Hamilton 
thought  the  same,  though  to  them  it  was  far  more  a  matter  of 
disappointment  than  rejoicing  ;  but  hope  mingled  almost  un- 
consciously with  regret,  and  they  too  were  pleased  that  ho  was 
about  to  become  their  guest. 

Lady  Gertrude's  eyes  were  more  than  once  luring  that 
morning  fixed  on  Caroline,  as  the  subject  of  St.  Eval's  travels 
and  residence  abroad  were  discussed,  but  she  was  silent;  what- 
ever were  her  secret  reflections,  they  were  confined  within  the 
recesses  of  her  own  heart. 

Lord  St.  Eval  came,  and  with  him  fresh  enjoyment  for 
Percy  and  Herbert ;  and  even  for  young  Myrvin,  who  found 
nothing  in  the  society  of  the  young  nobleman  to  wound  his 
pride  by  recalling  to  his  mind  his  own  inferior  rank.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hamilton  fancied  they  had  read  his  character  before  ;  but 
their  previous  intimacy  had  not  discovered  those  many  pleasing 
qualifications  which  domestic  amusements  and  occupations  be- 
trayed. Much  of  his  reserve  was  now  banished;  his  manners 
were  as  easy  and  as  free  from  pride  or  hauteur  as  his  conver- 
sation, though  chaste  and  intellectual,  was  from  pedantry.  To 
all  the  individuals  of  that  happy  circle  he  was  the  same ;  as 
kind  and  as  gay  to  Emmeline  and  Ellen  as  to  his  own  sisters; 
there  might,  perhaps,  have  been  a  degree  of  reserve  in  his  de- 
meanor towards  Caroline,  but  that,  except  to  those  principally 
concerned,  might  not  have  been  remarked,  for  his  intercourse 
with  her  was  even  more  general  than  with  others.  Emmeline 
and  Ellen,  or  even  Lilla,  Was  often  his  selected  companion  for 
a  walk,  but  such  an  invitation  never  extended  to  Caroline,  and 
yet  he  could  never  be  said  either  to  neglect  or  shun  her;  and 
she  shrinking  from  attracting  his  notice  as  much  as  she  had 
once  before  courted  it,  an  impassable  yet  invisible  barrier 
seemed  to  exist  between  them.  In  St.  Eval's  manner,  his 
mother  and  Lady  Gertrude  read  that  his  feelings  were  not 
conquered  ;  that  he  was  struggling  to  subdue  them,  and  put- 
ting their  subjection  to  the  proof;  but  Caroline  and  her  parents 
imagined,  and  with  bitter  pain,  that  much  as  he  had  once 
esteemed  and  loved  her,  a  feeling  of  indifference  now  possessed 
him. 


212  THE  MOTHERS  RECOMPENSE. 

Herbert  found  pleasure  in  the  society  of  the  young  Earl, 
for  St.  Eval  had  penetrated  the  secret  of  his  and  Mary's  love  j 
though  with  innate  delicacy  be  refrained  from  noticing  it  far- 
ther than  constantly  to  make  Mary  his  theme  during  his  walka 
with  Herbert,  and  speaking  of  her  continually  to  the  family, 
warming  the  heart  of  Emmeline  yet  more  in  his  favor,  by  his 
sincere  admiration  of  her  friend  He  gave  an  excellent  ac- 
count of  her  health,  which  she  had  desired  him  to  assure  her 
friends  the  air  of  Italy  had  quite  restored.  He  spoke  in  warm 
admiration  of  her  enthusiasm,  her  love  of  nature,  of  all  which 
called  forth  the  more  exalted  feelings  ;  of  her  unaffected  good- 
ness, which  had  rendered  her  a  favorite,  spite  of  her  being  a 
foreigner  and  a  Protestant,  throughout  the  whole  hamlet  of 
Monterosa;  and  as  he  thus  spoke,  the  anxious  eye  of  Mrs. 
Hamilton  ever  rested  on  her  Herbert,  who  could  read  in  that 
glance  how  tru^  and  fond  was  the  sympathy,  which  not  once 
since  he  had  confided  in  her  his  happiness,  had  he  regretted 
that  he  had  sought. 

The  remaining  period  of  the  Marquis  of  Malvern's  sojourn 
at  Oakwood  passed  rapidly  away  without  any  event  of  suffi- 
cient importance  to  find  a  place  in  these  pages.  They  left 
Oakwood. at  the  latter  end  of  January  for  St.  Eval's  beautiful 
estate  in  Cornwall,  where  they  intended  to  remain  a  month 
ere  they  went  to  London,  about  the  same  time  as  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton's family.  That  month  was  a  quiet  one  at  Oakwood  ;  all 
their  guests  had  departed,  and,  except  occasional  visits  from 
Arthur  Myrvin  and  St.  Eval,  their  solitude  was  uninterrupted. 

St.  Eval's  estate  was  situated  a  few  miles  inland  from  the 
banks  of  the  Tamar.  one  of  the  most  beautiful  spots  bordering 
that  most  beautiful  river.  He  was  wont  leisurely  to  sail  down 
the  stream  to  Plymouth,  and  thence  to  Oakwood,  declaring  tho 
distance  was  a  mere  trifle ;  but,  nevertheless  it  was  suificiently 
long  for  Mr.  Hamilton  sometimes  to  marvel  at  the  taste  of  his 
noble  friend,  which  led  him  often  twice  and  regularly  once  a 
•week  to  spend  a  few  hours,  never  more,  at  Oakwood,  when  he 
knew  they  should  so  soon  meet  in  London.  St.  Eval  did  not 
solve  the  mystery,  but  continued  his  visits,  bringing  cheerful- 
ness and  pleasure  whenever  he  appeared,  and  bidding  hopo 
glow  unconsciously  in  each  parent's  heart,  though  had  they 
looked  for  its  foundation,  they  would  have  found  nothing  in  the 
young  Earl's  manner  to  justify  its  encouragement. 

In  March  Mr.  Hamilton's  family  once  more  sought  their 
residence  in  Berkeley  Square,  about  a  week  after  the  Marquia 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  2i3 

of  Malvern's  arrival ;  and  this  season,  the  feelings  of  the  sisters, 
relative  to  the  gayeties  in  which  they  were  now  both  to  mingle, 
were  more  equal^  The  bright  hues  with  which  Caroline  had 
before  regarded  them  had  faded, — too  soon  and  too  painfully, 
indeed. 

She  had  been  deceived,  and  in  that  word,  when  applied  tc 
a  young,  aspiring,  trusting  mind,  what  anguish  does  it  not 
comprise.  True,  she  deserved  her  chastisement,  not  only 
that  she  had  acted  the  part  of  a  deceiver  to  one  who  trusted  her 
far  more  than  she  had  done  Lord  Alphingham.  but  wilfully 
she  had  blinded  herself  to  her  own  feelings,  that  she  might 
prove  her  independence;  yet  these  facts  lessened  not  \he  bit- 
terness of  feeling  which  was  now  often  here.  But  she  did  not 
relinquish  society ;  the  dread  of  encountering  Lord  Alphing- 
ham was  not  strong  enough  to  overcome  her  secret  wish  that, 
by  her  conduct  in  society,  she  might  prove  to  St.  Eval  that, 
although  unworthy  to  be  selected  as  his  wife,  she  would  yet 
endeavor  to  regain  his  esteem.  She  had  resolved  to  think  less 
of  herself  and  more  of  others,  and  thus  become  more  amiable 
in  their  sight,  and  not  feel  so  many  mortifications,  as  by  her 
constant  desire  for  universal  homage,  she  had  previously  en- 
dured. She  knew  the  task  was  difficult  so  to  conquer  herself, 
and  doubting  her  own  strength,  was  led  to  seek  it  where  alone 
it  could  be  found.  To  none  did  she  confess  these  secret  feel- 
ings and  determination ;  calmly  and  steadily  she  looked  for- 
ward, and  so  successfully  had  she  schooled  herself  to  submis- 
sion, that  no  word  or  sign  as  yet  betrayed  to  her  parents  the 
real  state  of  her  affections. 

Emmeline's  dislike  to  London  had  abated  as  much  as  had 
her  sister's  glowing  anticipations.  They  were  now  only  to  be 
four  months  in  the  metropolis ;  the  strict  routine  of  masters, 
etc.,  was  at  an  end,  and  she  was  to  accompany  Mrs.  Hamilton 
whenever  she  went  out.  She  left  Oakwood  with  regret,  and 
the  society  and  conversation  of  Arthur  Myrvin  were  missed 
more  often  in  London  than  she  chose  to  con-fess,  but  enjoyment 
was  ever  found  for  Emmeline — life  was  still  a  romance  to  her. 
In  the  society  of  London,  as  in  the  cottages  of  Oakwood,  she 
was  beloved,  and  she  was  happy  ;  but  those  of  the  opposite  sex, 
much  as  they  thronged  around  her,  had  no  more  thought  of 
demanding  such  a  being  in  marriage,  than  she  had  of  what  is 
termed  making  conquests.  It  was  therefore  with  feelings  of 
much  less  anxiety  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  mingled  in  society 
this  season,  for  the  conduct  of  both  their  daughters  was  such 
as  to  afford  them  satisfaction. 


214 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 


Some  changes  had  taken  place  in  many  of  the  personages 
with  whom  we  are  acquainted,  since  tlie  last  time  we  beheld 
them.  Short  and  evanescent  is  fashionable  popularity.  Lord 
Alphingham's  reign  might  be,  in  a  degree,  considered  over. 
Some  rumors  had  been  floating  over  the  town  at  that  time 
of  the.  year  when,  in  all  probability,  he  thought  himself  most 
secure,  that  is,  when  London  society  is  dispersed ;  rumors 
which  had  the  effect  of  excluding  him  from  most  of  those  cir- 
cles in  which  Mr.  Hamilton's  family  mingled,  and  withdrawing 
from  him  in  a  great  measure  the  friendship  of  Moutrose  Gra- 
hame ;  who,  the  soul  of  honor  himself,  shrunk  from  ary  con- 
nection with  one  whose  reputation  the  faintest  breath  had 
stained.  Yet  still  there  were  many  who  regarded  these  ru- 
xnors  as  the  mere  whisperings  of  envy,  and  witn  them  he  was 
as  much  a  favorite  as  ever.  Amongst  these  was  Annie  Gra- 
hame,  whose  marked  preference  more  than  atoned  to  the  Vis- 
count for  her  father's  coldness.  In  vain  Grahame  commanded 
that  his  daughter  should  change  her  manner  towards  him. 
She,  who  had  prevailed  on  a  daughter  to  disobey  this  very 
mandate  from  the  lips  of  an  indulgent  parent,  was  not  likely  to 
regard  that  of  the  father  whose  sternness  and  often  uncalled- 
for  severity  had  completely  alienated  her  affections,  and  Lord 
Alphingham  had  now  another  urgent  reason  to  flatter  Annie's 
vanity  and  make  her  his  own. 

A  distant  relation  and  godmother  of  Lady  Helen  Grahame 
had,  most  unexpectedly,  left  her  at  her  death  sole  heiress  to  a 
handsome  fortune,  which  was  to  descend  undivided  to  her  el- 
der daughter,  and  thus  to  Annie's  other  attractions  was  now 
added  that  all-omnipotent  charm,  the  knowledge  that  she  was 
an  heiress,  not  perhaps  to  any  very  large  property,  but  quite 
sufficient  to  mosu  agreeably  enlarge  the  fortune  of  any  gentle- 
man who  would  venture  to  take  her  for  better  or  worse.  One 
would  have  supposed  that  now  every  wish  of  this  aspiring 
young  lady  was  gratified ;  but  no.  It  mattered  not,  though 
crowds  were  at  her  feet,  that  when  they  met,  which  was  very 
seldom,  even  Caroline  was  no  longer  her  rival,  all  the  affection 
she  possessed  was  lavished  without  scruple  on  Lord  Alphing- 
ham.  and  every  thought  was  turned,  every  effort  directed  to- 
wards the  accomplishment  of  that  one  design.  So  deeply  en- 
grossed was  she  in  this  resolution,  that  she  had  no  time  nor 
thought  to  annoy  Caroline,  as  she  had  intended,  except  in  ex- 
ercising to  its  full  extent  her  power  over  Lord  Alphiugham 
whenever  she  was  present,  in  which  the  Viscount's  own  irri- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  215 

tatcd  feelings  towards  her  ably  assisted.  Caroline  felfthc  truth 
of  her  mother's  words,  that  Lord  Alphingham.  indeed,  bad  never 
honorably  loved  her ;  that  Annie's  conduct  justified  Mrs.  Ha- 
milton's prejudice,  and  as  her  heart  shrunk  in  sadness  from 
the  retrospection  of  these  truths,  it  swelled  in  yet  warmer  af- 
fection,  not  only  towards  her  fond  and  watchful  mother,  but 
towards  the  friends  that  mother's  judicious  choice  selected  and 
approved. 

Cecil  Grahamc  had  been  continually  in  the  habit  of  draw- 
ing upon  his  mother's  cash  for  ^e  indulgence  of  his  extrava 
gant  pleasures,  and  Lady  Helen%ad  thoughtlessly  satisfied  all 
his  wishes,  without  being  in  the  least  aware  of  the  evil  propen- 
sities she  was  thus  encouraging.  It  was  not  till  Cecil  was 
about  to  leave  Eton  for  the  University,  that  she  was  at  all 
startled  at  the  amount  of  his  debts,  and  then  her  principal 
alarm  arose  more  from  the  dread  of  her  husband's  anger  to- 
wards her  son.  if  he  discovered  the  fact,  than  from  any  maternal 
anxiety  for  Cecil's  unsteady  principles.  Her  only  wish  was  to 
pay  off  these  numerous  debts,  without  disclosing  them  to  tho 
husband  she  so  weakly  dreaded.  How  could  she  obtain  so 
large  a  sum,  even  from  her  own  banker,  and  thus  apply  it.  with- 
out his  knowledge  and  assistance?  The  very  anticipation  of 
so  much  trouble  terrified  her  almost  into  a  fit  of  illness  ;  and 
rather  than  exert  her  energies  or  expose  her  son  to  his  father's 
wrath,  she  would  descend  to  deceit,  and  implore  his  assistance 
in  obtaining  the  whole  amount,  on  pretence  that  she  required 
it  for  the  payment  of  her  own  expenses  and  debts  of  honor. 
She  imagined  that  she  had  sunk  too  low  in  her  husband's  esteem 
to  siuk  much  lower ;  and  therefore,  if  her  requiring  money  to 
discharge  debts  of  honor  exposed  her  yet  more  to  his  contempt, 
it  was  not  of  much  consequence  ;  besides,  if  it  were,  she  could 
not  help  it.  a  phrase  with  which  Lady  Helen  ever  contrived  to 
silence  the  rebukes  of  conscience  when  they  troubled  her, 
which,  however,  was  not  often. 

She  acted  accordingly ;  but  as  she  met  the  glance  of  her 
husband,  a  glance  in  which  sadness  triumphed  over  severity, 
she  was  tempted  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet,  and  beseech  him 
D  >t  to  imagine  her  the  dissipated  woman  her  words  betrayed,  for 
Lady  Helen  loved  her  husband  as  much  as  such  a  nature  could 
love ;  but.  of  all  things,  she  hated  a  scene,  and  though  every 
limb  trembled  with  emotion,  she  permitted  him  to  leave  her 
stung  almost  to  madness  by  the  disclosure  her  request  implied 
Did  she  play  ?  was  that  fatal  propensity  added  to  her  numer- 


216  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

ous  other* errors?  and  yet  never  had  any  tiring  fallen  under 
his  eye  to  prove  that  she  did.  And  what  debts  had  she  Con- 
tracted to  demand  such  a  sum  ?  Grahame  felt  she  had  deceived 
him;  that  the  money  had  never  been  expended  on  herself; 
but  he  would  not  torture  himself  by  demanding  a  true  and  full 
disclosure.  The  conduct  of  his  children  had  ever  grieved  him. 
and  fearing  too  justly  the  request  of  his  wife  related  to  them, 
madly  and  despairingly  he  closed  his  eyes  and  his  lips,  thus 
probably  encouraging  an  evil  which  he  might  have  prevented. 
He  delivered  the  stated  sum^and  that  same  day  made  over  to 
his  wife's  own  unchecked  disposal  the  whole  of  that  fortune 
which,  when  first  inherited,  she  had  voluntarily  placed  in  his 
hands  as  trustee  for  herself  and  for  her  daughter,  to  whom  it 
would  descend.  Briefly  he  resigned  the  office  she  had  en- 
treated him  to  take,  sternly  observing  that  Annie  had  better 
moderate  her  expectations,  as,  did  Lady  Helen  frequently  incur 
such  heavy  debts,  not  much  was  likely  to  descend  to  her  daugh- 
ter. It  was  a  great  deal  too  much  trouble  for  Lady  Helen  to 
expostulate,  and  if  any  feeling  predominated  to  conquer  the 
pang  occasioned  by  Grahame's  determination,  it  was  relief, 
that  she  might  now  assist  Cecil,  if  he  should  require  it,  without 
applying  to  his  father. 

Montrose  Grahame  was  naturally  not  only  an  excellent  but 
a  judicious  man  ;  but  to  a  great  extent,  his  judgment  had  de- 
serted him,  when  he  selected  Lady  Helen  as  his  wife.  Had 
he  been  united  to  a  woman  in  whose  judgment  and  firmness 
he  could  confide,  he  would  have  been  quite  as  much  respected 
and  beloved  in  his  family  as  were  Mr.  Hamilton  and  the  Mar- 
quis of  Malvern  in  theirs ;  but  now  neither  respect  nor  affec- 
tion was  extended  towards  him,  except,  perhaps,  by  Lilla.  and 
unconsciously  by  Lady  Helen.  Severity,  constantly  indulged, 
was  degenerating  into  moroseness;  and  feelings  continually 
controlled,  giving  place  to  coldness  and  distrust.  It  was  for- 
tunate for  Lilla's  happiness  and,  as  it  afterwards  proved,  for 
her  father's,  that  she  was  now  under  the  kindly  care  of  Mrs. 
Douglas,  for  constantly  irritated  with  his  elder  girl,  who,  it 
must  be  owned,  gave  him  abundant  cause,  that  irritation  and 
suspicion  would  undoubtedly  have  extended  towards  his 
younger,  and  at  once  have  destroyed  the  gentleness  and  amia- 
bility which  Mrs.  Douglas  was  so  carefully  and  tenderly  fos- 
tering. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  saw  this  change,  and  regret- 
ted it;  but  their  influence,  powerful  as  it  was,  could  be  of  no 
avail  in  counteracting  the  effect  of  domestic  annoyances,  pa- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE:  217 

tcrnal  anxiety,  and  constantly-aroused  irritation.  Of  all  the 
evils  in  life,  domestic  discord  is  one  of  the  greatest,  one -under 
which  the  heart  bleeds  the  most ;  want  of  sympathy  always  pre- 
vents or  banishes  affection.  Had  Grahame  been  a  careless,  self- 
ish man,  he  might  possibly  have  been  happier;  his  very  sensi- 
tiveness was  his  bane.  The  silly  weaknesses  of  his  wife  might 
partially  have  lessened  his  love  for  her,  but  his  children,  with 
all  their  faults,  were  dear  to  their  father;  they  knew  not, 
guessed  not,  how  much  his  happiness  was  centred  in  theirs ; 
how  his  heart  was  rent  with  anguish  every  time  that  duty,  as 
he  imagined,  called  on  him  to  be  severe.  Had  he  followed  the 
dictates  of  his  nature,  he  would  rather  have  ruined  his  children" 
by  over-indulgence  than  severity;  but  the  hope  of  counteract- 
ing the  effect  of  their  mother's  weakness  had  guided  his  mis- 
taken treatment.  Could  his  inmost  soul  have  been  read  by 
those  who  condemned  his  harshness,  they  would  have  sincerely 
pitied  the  keen  and  agonized  sensitiveness  with  which  he  felt 
the  alienation  of  their  affections.  Much  as  he  saw  to  blame 
in  Annie,  had  she  ever  given  him  one  proof  of  filial  love,  all 
would  have  been  forgiven,  and  the  blessing  of  a  parent  been 
her  own  in  all  she  did  or  wished.  Had  Cecil  confessed  those 
errors  of  which  he  was  conscious  that  he  was  guilty  to  his  fa- 
ther, he  would  have  found  a  true  and  tender  friend,  who  would 
have  led  his  naturally  good,  though  too  yielding,  character 
aright,  and  misery  to  both  might  have  been  spared,  but  such 
was  not  to  be ;  and  in  the  fates  of  Alfred  Greville  and  Cecil 
Grahame  we  may  chance  to  perceive  that,  whatever  may  be 
the  difficulties  surrounding  her,  however  blighted  may  appear 
the  produce  of  her  anxious  labors,  yet  reward  will  attend  the 
firm,  re^gious  mother,  however  difficult  may  be  the  actual  ful- 
filment M  her  duties ;  while  that  mother  who.  surrounded  by 
luxury  and  prosperity,  believes,  by  unqualified  indulgence,  she 
is  firmly  binding  her  offspring  in  the  observance  of  love  and 
duty,  will  reap  but  too  bitter  fruit. 

It  was  when  in  the  presence  of  the  Duchess  of  Rothbury 
Caroline  felt  most  uncomfortable.  The  family  were  as  cordial 
as  ever,  but  there  was  somewhat  in  the  cold,  penetrating  eye 
of  her  Grace,  that  bade  her  almost  unconsciously  shrink  from 
meeting  its  glance.  In  the  previous  season  the  Duchess  had 
ever  singled  Caroline  out  as  an  object  of  her  especial  regard, 
a  circumstance  so  unusual  in  one  of  her  character,  that  it  ren- 
dered her  present  haughty  coldness  more  difficult  to  bear. 
Caroline  would  have  borne  it  in  silence  had  it  only  extended 
10 


218  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

towards  herself,  but  it  appeared  as  if  both  Emmelinc  and  Ellon 
shared  the  contempt  she  perhaps  had  justly  called  forth  on 
herself,  as  the  Duchess,  tenacious  of  her  penetrating  powers, 
feared  to  honor  either  of  them  with  her  favor,  lest  she  should 
be  again  deceived.  Caroline  longed  to  undeceive  her  on  this 
point,  to  give  her  a  "just  estimate  of  both  her  sister  and  cou- 
sin's character,  acknowledge  how  far  superior  in  filial  respect 
and  affection,  as  well  as  in  innate  integrity  and  uprightness, 
they  were  to  herself;  but  her  mother  entreated  her  to  let  time 
do  its  work,  and  wait  till  the  Duchess  herself  discovered  they 
were  not  what  she  either  believed  they  were  or  might  be,  and 
she  checked  her  wish. 

We  will  here  mention  a  circumstance  which  occurred  in 
Mr.  Hamilton's  family  soon  after  their  arrival  in  town,  which 
occasioned  Mrs.  Hamilton  some  uneasiness.  Ellen's  health 
was  now  perfectly  re-established,  and  on  Miss  Harcourt's  un- 
expected departure,  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  determined  on  intro- 
ducing her  niece  with  Emmeline  in  the  present  season.  If 
Lucy  had  remained  in  her  family,  Ellen  would  not  have  made 
her  debut  till  the  following  year;  not  that  her  age  was  any  ob- 
stacle, for  there  were  only  eight  months  difference  between  her 
and  Emmeline,  but  her  retiring  disposition  and  delicacy  of  con- 
stitution caused  Mrs.  Hamilton  to  think  this  plan  the  most 
advisable.  When,  however,  there  was  no  longer  any  excuse 
with  regard  to  failing  health,  and  no  Miss  Harcourt  with  whom, 
her  evenings  at  home  might  be  more  agreeably  spent,  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  by  the  advice  of  her  husband,  changed  her  intention  ; 
and  Emmeline  even  made  a  joke  with  Ellen  on  the  admirable 
fun  they  should  have  together,  rejoicing  that  such  an  impor- 
tant event  in  the  lives  of  ench  should  take  place  on  the  same 
day.  It  so  happened  that  Ellen  never  appeared  to  enter  into 
her  cousin's  everlasting  merriment  on  this  subject ;  still  she 
said  nothing  for  or  against  till  the  day  all-important  with  the 
ordering  their  elegant  dresses  Tor  the  occasion.  Timidly  and 
hesitatingly  she  then  ventured  to  entreat  her  aunt  still  to  ad- 
here to  her  first  plan,  and  allow  her  to  remain  quietly  at  homo, 
under  the  care  of  Ellis,  till  the  following  year.  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton and  her  cousins  looked  at  her  with  astonishment;  but  the 
former  smilingly  replied,  she  could  not  indulge  her  niece  in 
what  appeared  an  unfounded  fancy.  The  dress  she  should 
order,  for  she  hoped  Ellen  would  change  her  mind  before  the 
day  arrived,  as,  unless  a  very  good  reason  were  given,  she  could 
not  grant  her  request.  Ellen  appeared  distressed ;  bat  the 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  219 

conversation  changed,  and  the  subject  was  not  resumed  till  the 
day  actually  arrived,  in  the  evening  of  which  she  was  to  ac- 
company her  aunt  to  a  ball  at  the  Marchioness  of  Malvern's 
and  two  days  after  they  were  all  engaged  at  a  dinner-party  at 
the  Earl  of  Elmore's. 

Summoning  all  her  courage,  Ellen  entered  her  aunt's  bou- 
doir in  the  morning,  and  again  made  her  request  with  an 
earnestness  that  almost  startled  Mrs.  Hamilton,  particularly  aa 
it  was  accompanied  by  a  depression  of  manner,  which  she  now 
did  not  very  often  permit  to  obtain  ascendency.  With  affec- 
tionate persuasweness  she  demanded  the  reason  of  this  extra- 
ordinary resolution,  and  surprise  gave  way  to  some  displeasure, 
when  she  found  Ellen  had  really  none  to  give.  Her  only  en- 
treaty was  that  she  might  not  be  desired  to  go  out  till  the  next 
year. 

"  But  why,  my  dear  Ellen  1  You  must  have  some  reason 
for  this  intended  seclusion.  Last  year  I  fancied  you  wished 
much  to  accompany  us,  and  I  ever  regretted  your  delicate 
health  prevented  it.  What  has  made  you  change  your  mind 
so  completely?  Have  you  any  distaste  for  the  society  in  which 
I  mingle  ?" 

Falteringly.  and  almost  inaudibly,  Ellen  answered,  "  None." 

"Is  it  a  religious  motive?  Do  your  principles  revolt  from 
the  amusements  which  are  now  before  you?  Tell  me  candidly, 
Ellen.  You  know  nothing  displeases  me  so  much  as  mystery ; 
I  can  forgive  every  thing  else,  for  then  I  know  our  relative  po- 
sitions, and  am  satisfied  you  are  not  going  far  wrong;  but  when 
every  reason  is  studiously  concealed,  I  cannot  guess  the  truth, 
and  I  must  fancy  it  is,  at  least,  a  mistaken  notion  blinding 
your  better  judgment.  I  did  not  expect  a  second  urystery 
from  you.  Ellen." 

Mrs.  Hamilton's  expressive  voice  clearly  denoted  she  was 
displeased,  and  her  niece,  after  two  or  three  ineffectual  efforts 
to  prevent  it,  finally  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  harsh  with  you,  or  accuse  you  un- 
justly," continued  her  aunt,  softened  at  the  unaffected  grief 
she  beheld,  "  but  if  your  reason  be  a  good  one,  why  Jo  you  so 
carefully  conceal  it?  You  have  been  lately  so  very  upen  with 
me,  and  appeared  to  regard  me  so  truly  as  your  friend,  that 
your  present  conduct  is  to  me  not  only  a  riddle,  but  a  painful 
reflection.  Is  it  because  your  conscience  forbids?  Perhaps 
in  your  solitary  moments  you  have  fancied  that  worldly 
amusements,  even  in  the  moderate  way  in  which  we  regard 


220  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

them,  unfit  us  for  more  serious  considerations,  and  you  fear 
perhaps  to  confess  that  such  is  your  reason,  because  it  will  seem 
a  reproach  to  me.  If  such  really  be  your  motive,  do  not  fear 
to  confess  it.  my  dear  girl ;  I  should  be  the  very  last  to  urge 
you  to  do  any  thing  that  is  against  your  idea  of  what  is  right. 
To  prove  the  fallacy  of  such  reasoning,  to  show  you  that  you 
may  be  truly  religious  without  eccentricity,  I  certainly  should 
endeavor  to  do,  but  I  would  not  force  you  to  go  out  with  me 
till  my  arguments  had  convinced  you.  I  fancy,  by  your  blush- 
ing cheek,  that  I  have  really  guessed  the  cause  of  your  ex- 
traordinary resolution,  and  sorry  as  I  shall  be  if  I  have,  yet 
any  reason,  however  mistaken,  is  better  than  a  coutinued 
mystery." 

'•  Indeed,  indeed,  I  am  not  so  good  as  you  believe  me,"  re- 
plied Ellen,  with  much  emotion.  "  It  is  not  the  religious  mo- 
tive you  imagine  that  urges  me  to  act  contrary  to  your  wishes. 
Did  you  know  my  reason.  I  am  sure  you  would  not  blame  me; 
but  do  not,  pray  do  not  command  me  to  tell  you.  I  must 
obey,  if  you  do,  and  then — " 

"  And  then,  if  I  appove  of  your  reason,  as  you  say  I  shall, 
what  is  it  that  you  fear?  Why,  if  your  conscience  does  not 
reproach  you,  do  you  still  hide  it  from  me  ?" 

Ellen  was  painfully  silent.  Mrs.  Hamilton  continued,  in 
a  tone  of  marked  displeasure,  "  I  fear  I  am  to  find  myself 
again  deceived  in  you,  Ellen,  though  in  what  manner,  as  yet,  I 
know  not.  I  will  not  do  such  extreme  violence  to  your  incli- 
nations as  to  command  you  to  yield  to  my  wishes.  If  you  de- 
sire so  much  to  remain  at  home,  do  so ;  but  I  cannot  engage 
to  make  any  excuse  for  you.  Neither  failing  health  nor  beiiig 
too  young  can  I  now  bring  forward  ;  I  must  answer  all  inqui- 
ries for  you  with  the  truth,  that  your  own  wishes,  which  I  could 
not  by  persuasion  overcome,  alone  keep  you  at  home.  My 
conscience  will  still  be  clear  from  the  reproaches  so  plentifully 
showered  on  me  by  the  world  last  season,  that  I  feared  to  bring 
forward  my  orphan  niece  with  my  daughters,  lest  her  charms 
should  rival  theirs." 

{t  Did  the  ill-natured  and  ignorant  dare  to  say  such  a  thing 
to  you?"  demanded  Ellen,  startled  at  this  remark. 

"  They  knew  not  the  cause  of  your  never  appearing  in  pub- 
lic, and  therefore,  as  appearances  were  against  me,  scrupled 
not  to  condemn." 

l-  And  do  you  heed  them?  Do  these  remarks  affect  you?" 
exclaimed  Ellen,  earnestly. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  221 

"  No,  Ellen.  I  have  done  my  duty  ;  I  will  still  do  it,  un- 
disturbed by  such  idle  calumnies,  even  should  they  now  bo 
believed  by  those  whose  opinions  I  value,  who.  from  your  se- 
clusion, may  imagine  they  have  good  reason.  In  my  conduct 
towards  you  the  last  two  years  I  have  nothing  to  reproach 
myself.1' 

'•  The  last  two  years.  Oh,  never,  never,  from  the  first  mo- 
ment I  was  under  your  care,  never,  can  your  conduct  to  me 
have  given  you  cause  for  self-reproach,  dearest  aunt.  Oh,  do  not 
say  that  the  gratification  of  my  wishes  will  give  rise  to  a  sus- 
picion so  unjust,  so  unfounded,"  entreated  Ellen,  seizing  with 
impetuosity  the  hand  of  her  aunt. 

'•  In  all  probability  it  will ;  but  do  not  speak  in  this  strain 
now,  Ellen  ;  it  accords  not  well  with  the  mystery  of  your 
words,"  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  coldly  withdrew  her  hand.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence,  for  Ellen  had  turned  away,  pained  to 
her  heart's  core,  and  soon  after  she  quitted  the  room  to  seek 
her  own,  where,  throwing  herself  on  a  low  seat  by  the  side  of 
her  couch,  she  gave  way  to  an  unrestrained  and  violent  flow 
of  tears.  Mrs.  Hamilton  little  knew  the  internal  struggle  her 
niece  was  enduring,  the  cause  of  her  seclusion;  that  the  term 
of  lier  self-condemned  probation  was  not  fulfilled,  that  the  long, 
tedious  task  was  not  accomplished;  that  it  was  for  this  pur- 
pose she  so  earnestly  desired  that  her  time  might  not  be  occu- 
pied by  amusement,  till  her  task  was  done,  the  errors  of  her 
earlier  years  atoned.  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  seldom  felt  more 
thoroughly  displeased  and  hurt  with  her  niece,  than  at  the 
present  moment.  Gentle,  and  invulnerable  as  she  ever  seemed 
to  irritation,  open  as  the  day  herself,  she  had  ever  endeavored< 
to  frame  her  children's  characters  in  the  like  manner  ;  inge- 
nuousness always  obtained  forgiveness,  whatever  might  have 
been  the  mistake  or  fault.  Ellen  had  always  been  a  subject 
ot  anxiety  and  watchfulness ;  but  the  last  two  years  her  re- 
serve had  so  entirely  given  place  to  candor,  that  solicitude  had 
much  decreased,  till  recalled  by  the  resolution  we  have  re- 
corded. Had  Ellen  alleged  any  reason  whatever,  all  would 
have  been  well ;  Mrs.  Hamilton  would  not  have  thought  on 
the  subject  so  seriously.  A  mystery  in  her  conduct  had  once 
before  been  so  productive  of  anguish,  that  Mrs.  Hamilton 
could  not  think  with  her  usual  calmness  and  temper  on  the 
circumstance. 

It  was  so  long  before  Ellen  regained  her  composure,  that 
traces  of  tears  were  visible  even  when  she  joined  the  family  at 


222  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

dinner,  and  were  remarked  by  her  uncle,  who  jestingly  de- 
manded what  could  occasion  signs  of  grief  at  such  an  important 
era  in  her  life.  Vainly  Ellen  hoped  her  aunt  would  spare  her 
the  pain  of  answering  by  even  expressing  her  displeasure  at 
her  resolution,  but  she  waited  in  vain,  and  she  was  compelled 
to  own  that  the  era  of  her  life,  to  which  her  uncle  so  playfully 
referred,  was  postponed  by  her  own  earnest  desire  till  the  next 
season.  f 

Mr.  Hamilton  put  down  his  knife  and  fork  in  unfeigned 
astonishment.  "  Why,  what  is  the  meaning  of  tr.is  sudden 
change  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  were  not  wont  to  be  capri- 
cious, Ellen.  Will  your  aunt  explain  this  marvellous  mys- 
tery?" 

"I  am  sorry  I  cannot,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  replied,  in  a  tone 
that  plainly  betrayed  to  the  quick  ears  of  her  husband  that 
she  was  more  than  usually  disturbed.  "  I  am  not  in  Ellen's 
confidence  ;  her  resolution  is  as  extraordinary  to  me  as  to  you, 
for  she  has  given  me  no  reason."  Mr.  Hamilton  said  no  more, 
but  he  looked  vexed,  and  Ellen  did  not  feel  more  comfortable. 
He  detained  her  as  she  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  and  briefly 
demanded  in  what  manner  she  intended  to  employ  the  many 
hours  which,  now  that  Miss  Harcourt  was  away,  she  would 
have  to  herself.  A  crimson  flush  mounted  to  Ellen's  temples 
as  he  spoke,  a  flush  that,  combined  with  the  hesitating  tone 
in  which  she  answered,  "to  read  and  work,"  might  well  justify 
the  sternness  of  tone  and  manner  with  which  her  uncle  re- 
plied : 

"  Ellen,  had  you  never  deceived  us,  I  might  trust  you,  spite 
jjf  that  flushed  cheek  and  hesitating  tone  ;  as  it  is.  your  con- 
duct the  last  two  years  urges  me  to  .do  so,  notwithstanding 
appearances,  and  all  I  say  is,  beware  how  you  deceive  me  a 
second  time." 

Ellen's  cheek  lost  its  color,  and  became  for  the  space  of  a 
minute  pule  as  death,  so  much  so,  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  regret- 
ted her  husband  should  have  spoken  so  severely.  Rallying 
her  energies,  Ellen  replied,  in  a  steady  but  very  low  voice — 

"  My  conduct,  uncle,  during  my  aunt's  and  your  absence 
from  home,  has  been  aud  shall  ever  be  open  to  the  inspection 
of  all  your  household.  I  am  too  well  aware  that  I  am  unde- 
serving of  your  confidence,  but  I  appeal  to  Ellis,  on  whoso 
fidelity  I  know  you  rely,  to  prove  to  you  in  this  case  you  sus- 
pect me  unjustly."  The  last  word  was  audible,  but  that  was 
all;  and,  deeply  pained.  Ellen  retired  to  her  own  room;  which 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  223 

ehe  did  not  quit,  even  to  see  her  favorite  cousin  decked  for  tho 
ball.  Einraeline  sought  her,  however,  and  tried  by  kisses  to 
recall  the  truant  rose,  the  banished  smile,  but  Mrs.  Hamilton 
did  not  come  to  wish  her  good  night,  and  Ellen's  heart  waa 
heavy. 

Some  few  days  passed,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  accepted  three 
several  invitations  without  again  expressing  her  wishes ;  but 
though  the  subject  was  not  resumed,  equal  perplexity  existed 
in  the  minds  of  both  aunt  and  niece.  Ellen  did  not  accuse 
Mrs.  Hamilton  of  unkindness,  but  she  could  not  fail  to  per- 
ceive that  she  no  longer  retained  her  confidence,  and  that 
knowledge  painfully  distressed  the  orphan's  easily  excited  feel- 
ings. Another  circumstance  gave  her  additional  pain;  her 
strange  and  apparently  capricious  behavior  had  been  casually 
mentioned  to  Herbert,  and  he,  aware  that  his  advice  was  al- 
ways acceptable  to  Ellen,  ventured  to  remonstrate  with  her. 
and  playfully  to  reason  her  out  of  what  he  termed  her  extraor- 
dinary fancy  for  seclusion.  Some  indefinable  sensation  ever 
-revented  Ellen  from  speaking  or  writing  *to  Herbert  as  she 
ould  have  done  to  any  other  member  of  the  family,  but  she 
answered  him,  acknowledging  she  deserved  his  hinted  reproach, 
but  owning  that  she  could  not  change  her  conduct,  even  in 
compliance  with  his  request ;  nevertheless,  it  grieved  her  much 
to  know  that  he,  whose  approbation  she  unconsciously  but  ar- 
dently wished  to  gain,  should  believe  her  the  capricious,  unac- 
countable being  it  was  evident  he  did:  still  she  persevered. 
These,  and  whatever  more  she  might  have  to  eudsre,  were  but 
petty  trials  to  which  her  secretly  chastened  mind  might  bend, 
but  should  no!:  weakly  bow.  She  knew,  if  her  aunt  were  con-^ 
scious  of  her  intention,  much  as  perhaps  she  might  approve  or 
the  motive,  she  would  deem  it  a  needless  sacrifice,  and  pro- 
bably prohibit  its  continuance  ;  or.  if  she  permitted  and  encour- 
aged it.  the  merit  of  her  action  would  no  longer  exist,  nor  could 
she  indeed,  while  in  the  enjoyment  of  praise,  have  finished  a 
task,  commenced  and  carried  on  purel**  *or  the  sake  of  duty, 
land  as  an  atonement  for  the  past,  by  the  sacrifice  of  inclina- 
tion, make  peace  with  the  gracious  God  she  had  offended. 
Petty  trials  were  welcome  then,  for  if  she  met  them  with  a 
Christian  temper,  a  Christian  spirit,  she  might  hope  that,  what- 
ever she  might  endure,  she  was  progressing  in  His  paths, 
"whose  ways  are  pleasantness,  and  whose  paths  are  peace;" 
could  she  but  remove  the  lingering  displeasure  and  distrust  of 
her  aunt  and  uncle,  she  would  be  quite  happy. 


224  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

It  so  happened  that  Emmeline's  next  engagement  Avas  t» 
the  Opera,  which  was  always  Ellen's  greatest  conquest  oi 
inclination.  She  had  amused  herself  by  superintending  her 
cousin's  dressing,  and  a  sigh  so  audibly  escaped,  that  Emme- 
liiie  instantly  exclaimed — 

"  Ellen,  you  know  you  would  like  to  go  with  us.  In  the 
name  of  all  that  is  incomprehensible,  why  do  you  stay  at 
home?" 

"  Because,  much  as  I  own  I  should  like  to  go  with  you,  I 
like  better  to  stay  at  home." 

"  You  really  are  the  spirit  of  contradiction,  Ellen.  What 
did  you  sigh  for?" 

"  Not  for  the  Opera,  Emmeline." 

"  Then  why  ?» 

"  Because  I  cannot  bear  to  feel  my  aunt  has  lost  all  her 
confidence  in  me." 

';  You  are  marvellously  silly,  Ellen ;  mamma  is  just  the 
same  to  you  as  usual ;  I  have  observed  no  difference." 

1{  Dear  Emmelfne,  coldness  is  not  seen,  it  is  felt ;  and  as 
you  have  been  so  happy  as  never  to  have  felt  it,  you  cannot 
understand  what  I  mean." 

"  Nor  do  I  ever  wish  to  feel  it.  But  do  not  look  so  sor- 
rowful, dear  Ellen ;  mamma's  coldness  is  an  awful  thing  to 
encounter,  I  own." 

" If  you  have  never  felt  it,  how  can  you  judge?"  said  a 
playful  voice  beside  them,  for  Emmeline  had  been  too  deeply 
engrossed  in  arranging  and  disarranging- a  wreath  of  roses  in 
her  hair,  and  Ellen  too  much  engaged  in  her  own  thoughts,  to 
notice  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Hamilton. 

"Is  it  possible  j*>u  are  not  ready,  Emmeline?  what  have 
you  been  about?" 

''Teasing  Ellen,  mamma;  besides,  Fanny  was  engaged, 
and  I  could  not  please  myself" 

'  Or  rather  you  were  disinclined  for  exertion.  I  have 
been  watching  you  the  last  few  moments,  and  you  have  played 
with  that  pretty  wreath  till  it  is  nearly  spoiled." 

•'  I  plead  guilty,  dear  mamma,  but  let  Fanny  come,  and 
I  will  be  ready  in  a  second."  answered  Emmeline.  looking 
archly  and  caressingly  in  her  mother's  face.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
einiled,  and  turned  as  if  to  speak  to  her  niece,  but  Ellen  was 
gone.  She  was  sitting  in  her  own  room  a  few  minutes  after- 
wards, endeavoring  to  collect  her  thoughts  sufficiently  to  un- 
derstand the  book  of  the  new  opera  which  her  cousin  had  lent 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  225 

her.  when  she  was  interrupted  by  a  hand  gently  placed  upon 
the  leaves. 

"  So  coldness  is  felt,  not  seen,  is  it,  my  dear  Ellen  ?  well, 
then,  let  th*«.t  kiss  banish  it  for  ever,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, encircling  the  delicate  form  of  her  niece  with  her  arm. 
'•  I  have  been  more  distant  and  unkind,  perhaps,  than  was 
necessary,  but  your  mysterious  resolution  irritated  me  beyond 
forbearance,  and  I  have  been  very  unjust  and  very  cruel,  have 
I  not?  will  you  forgive  me?" 

E.'len  looked  up  in  her  face,  and,  unable  to  control  her 
feelings,  threw  her  arms  around  her  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Nay,  dearest,  do  not  let  me  leave  you  in  tears.  I  am 
satisfied  you  have  some  good  reason  for  your  conduct,  though 
my  usual  penetration  is  entirely  at  fault.  Will  you  quite  con- 
tent me  by  looking  steadily  in  my  face,  and  assuring  me  that 
your  conscience  never  reproaches  your  conduct.  I  shall  not 
have  one  lingering  doubt  then." 

Ellen  smiled  through  her  tears,  as  she  tried  to  obey,  but 
her  lips  so  quivered  as  she  answered,  that  Mrs.  Hamilton 
laughingly  added.  '•  That  would  never  do  in  a  court  of  justice, 
my  silly  little  girl ;  no  one  would  pronounce  you  innocent  if 
thus  tearfully  affirmed  ;  but  as  you  generally  compel  me  to 
regret  severity,  when  I  do  venture  to  use  it,  I  must  be  content 
to  let  you  follow  your  own  inclinations  this  year  at  least. 
Next  season,  I  give  you  no  such  license ;  nolens  volens,  as 
Percy  would  say,  I  must  take  you  out  with  me ;  you  shall  not 
hide  yourself  iu  solitude ;  but  I  do  not  fancy  your  resolution 
will  hold  good,  even  the  remainder  of  this  season."  she  added, 
smilingly. 

"  Do  not,  pray  do  not  try  to  turn  me  from  it,  my  dear, 
kHd  aunt,"  said  Ellen,  earnestly;  "I  do  not  deserve  this  in- 
dulgence from  you.  for  I  know  how  much  you  dislike  conceal- 
ment; but  indeed,  indeed,  you  shall  never  regret  your  kind- 
ness. I  do  not,  I  will  not  abuse  it ;  it  is  only  because,  be- 
cause— "  she  hesitated. 

•'  Do  not  excite  my  curiosity  too  painfully,  Ellen,  in  return 
for  my  indulgence,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  sportively. 

"  No,  dear  aunt,  I  only  wish  to  finish  a  task  I  have  set 
myself,  and  my  various  avocations  during  the  day  prevent  my 
having  any  time,  unless  I  take  it  from  such  amusements,"  said 
Ellen,  blushing  as  she  spoke ;  "  indeed,  that  is  my  real  and 
only  reason." 

Mrs.    Hamilton   fixed   an   anxious  glance  upon   her,  but 
10* 


226  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

though  she  really  felt  satisfied  at  this  avowal,  the  actual  truth 
never  entered  her  mind. 

"  You  have  quite  satisfied  me,  my  dear  girl ;  I  will  not  ask 
more,  and  you  may  stay  at  home  as  often  as  you  please. 
Your  uncle  and  I  have  both  been  very  unjust  and  very  severo 
upon  our  little  Ellen,  but  you  have  quite  disarmed  us  ;  so  you 
shall  neither  feel  nor  fancy  my  coldness  any  more.  There  is 
Emmeline  calling  as  loudly  for  me  as  if  I  were  after  my  time. 
Good  night,  love.  God  bless  you!  do  not  sit  up  too  late,  and 
be  as  happy  as  you  can." 

"  I  am  quite  happy  now,"  exclaimed  Ellen,  returning,  with 
delighted  eagerness,  Mrs.  Hamilton's  fond  embrace,  ami  she 
was  happy.  For  a  moment  she  felt  lonely,  as  the  door  closed 
on  her  aunt's  retreating  form ;  but  as  she  roused  herself  to 
eeek  her  work,  that  feeling  fled.  When  the  nature  of  her 
work  was  sufficiently  simple  to  require  but  little  thought, 
Ellen  was  accustomed  to  improve  herself  by  committing  to 
memory  many  parts  of  the  Bible  suited  for  prayer,  confession, 
or  praise,  so  that  her  thoughts  might  not  wander,  during  those 
solitary  hours,  in  the  paths  of  folly  or  of  sin,  but,  once  centred 
on  serious  things,  her  mind  might  thence  become  strengthened 
and  her  judgment  ripened. 

These  lonely  hours  did  much  towards  the  formation  of  the 
orphan's  character.  Accustomed  thus  to  commune  with  her 
Creator,  to  gather  strength  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber 
she  was  enabled,  when  her  trial  came,  to  meet  it  with  a  spirit 
most  acceptable  to  Him  who  had  ordained  it. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

LORD  MALVERN'S  family  and  Mr.  Hamilton's  were  still  in 
town,  though  the  younger  members  of  each  were  longing  for 
the  fresh  air  of  the  country. 

One  afternoon,  hot  and  dusty  from  rapid  riding,  the  young 
Earl  St.  Eval  hastily,  and  somewhat  discomposedly,  entered 
his  sister  Lady  Gertrude's  private  room. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  you  are  alone  !:'  was  his  exclamation,  as 
he  entered  ;  but  throwing  himself  moodily  on  a  couch,  he  did 
not  seem  inclined  to  say  more. 

''  What  is  the  matter,  dear  Eugene?  Something  has  dis- 
turbed you,"  said  Lady  Gertrude,  soothingly,  and  in  a  tone 
tending  rather  to  allay  his  irritation  than  express  her  own 
desire  to  know  what  had  happened. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  227 

K  Something — yes,  Gertrude,  enough  to  bid  me  forswear 
England  again,  and  bury  myself  in  a  desert,  where  a  sigh 
from  your  sex  could  never  reach  me  more." 

"Not  even  mine,  Eugene?"  exclaimed  his  sister,  laying 
down  her  work,  and  seating  herself  on  a  stool  at  his  feet,  while 
she  looked  up  in  his  excited  features  with  an  expression  of 
fondness  on  her  placid  countenance.  "  Would  you  indeed  for- 
bid my  company,  if  I  implored  to  share  your  solitude  ?" 

';  My  sister,  my  own  kind  sister,  would  I,  could  I  deprive 
myself  of  the  blessing,  the  comfort  your  presence  ever 
brings?"  replied  St.  Eval,  earnestly.  "No,  dearest  Gertrude, 
I  could  not  refuse  you,  whatever  you  might  ask." 

'•  Then  tell  me  now  what  it  is  that  has  disturbed  you  thus. 
With  what  new  fancy  are  you  tormenting  yourself?" 

"  Nay,  this  is  no  fancy,  Gertrude.  You  are,  you  have 
been  wrong  from  the  first,  and  I  am  too  painfully  right. 
Caroline  does  not  and  never  will  love  me." 

Lady  Gertrude  started. 

"Have  you  been  again  rejected?"  she  demanded,  a  dark 
flush  of  indignant  pride  suffusing  her  cheek. 

Lord  St.  Eval  mournfully  smiled. 

';  You  are  as  summary  in  your  conclusions  as  you  say  I  am 
sometimes.  No.  Gertrude,  I  have  not;  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not 
undergo  the  torture  I  once  experienced  in  saying  those  words 
which  I  hoped  would  seal  my  happiness." 

••  Nay.  then.  I  must  say  them  for  you,"  said  Lady  Gertrude, 
smiling.  "  I  have  watched  Caroline  narrowly,  and  I  feel  sc 
confident  she  loves  you,  that  I  would,  without  the  slightest 
doubt  or  fear,  consign  your  happiness,  precious  as  it  is  to  m?, 
to  her  disposal." 

"  Forbear,  Gertrude,  for  pity!"  exclaimed  Lord  St.  Eval, 
starting1  up  an  1  pacing  the  room.  "  You  saw  not  what  I  saw 
last  night,  nor  heard  the  cold,  malicious  words  warning  me 
againdt  her;  that  even  when  she  had  accepted,  she  was  false; 
or,  if  she  were  not  false,  that  she  still  loved  another.  I  saw 
it  in  her  varying  cheek,  her  confused  manner ;  I  heard  it  in 
her  hurried  accents,  and  this  morning  has  confirmed  all — all. 
Gertrude.  I  ever  told  you.  my  lot  was  not  happiness ;  that  as 
the  fate  of  some  men  is  all  bright,  so  that  of  others  is  all  gloom, 
and  such  is  mine." 

"  Eugene,  hew  often  must  I  entreat  you  not  to  speak  thus. 
Man's  happiness  or  misery,  in  a  great  measure,  depends  upon 
himself.  You  have  often  said  that  when  with  me,  you  reason 


228  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE, 

more  calmly  than  when  you  think  alone ;  only  tell  me  cohe 
rently  what  has  chanced,  and  all  may  not  be  so  gloomy  as  you 
believe." 

St.  Eval  suffered  himself  to  be  persuaded,  and  seating  him« 
self  beside  his  sister,  he  complied  with  her  request. 

The  fact  was  simply  this.  He  had  returned  to  England, 
at  the  entreaty  of  his  sister,  determined  to  discover  if  indeed 
there  existed  any  hope  of  his  at  length  obtaining  Caroline's 
affections.  Lady  Gertrude's  letter  to  him  purposely  portrayed 
the  many  amiable  qualities  existing  in  Caroline's  character, 
and  the  general  tenor  of  her  words  had  led  him  to  resolve  that 
if  he  could  indeed  make  so  favorable  an  impression  on  her 
heart  as  to  teach  her  to  forget  the  past,  he  too  would  banish 
pride,  and  secure  his  happiness,  and  he  hoped  hers,  by  a  second 
offer  of  his  hand.  Her  conduct,  guarded  as  it  was,  had  un- 
consciously strengthened  his  hopes,  and  the  last  few  weeks  he 
had  relaxed  so  much  in  his  reserve,  as  to  excite  in  the  mind  of 
Caroline  the  hope,  almost  the  certainty,  that  he  no  longer  de- 
spised her.  and  created  for  himself  many  truly  delightful  hours 
It  so  happened  that,  on  the  evening  to  which  he  referred,  Caro- 
line bad  gone  to  a  large  party,  under  the  protection  of  the 
Countess  of  Elmore,  who.  at  the  entreaty  of  the  lady  of  tlio 
house,  had  obtained  the  permission  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  to  intro- 
duce her.  The  young  Earl  had  devoted  himself  to  her  the 
greater  part  of  the  evening,  to  the  satisfaction  of  both,  when 
his  pleasure  was  suddenly  and  painfully  alloyed  by  her  visible 
confusion  at  the  unexpected  entrance,  and  still  more  unex- 
pected salutation,  of  Lord  Alphingham.  Caroline  had  so  sel- 
dom met  the  Viscount  during  the  season,  that  she  was  not  yet 
enabled  to  conquer  her  agitation  whenever  she  beheld  him. 
She  ever  dreaded  his  addressing  her;  ever  felt  that  somewhat 
lurked  in  his  insinuating  voice,  that  would  in  the  end.lead  to 
evil ;  besides  which,  her  abhorrence  towards  him  whenever 
Percy's  tale  flashed  across  her  mind,  which  it  never  failed  to  do 
when  he  appeared,  always  prevented  her  retaining  her  calm- 
ness undisturbed.  Lord  St.  Eval  had  left  England  with  the 
impression  that  Alphingham  was  his  favored  rival,  and  his  im- 
agination instantly  attributed  Caroline's  emotion  at  his  en- 
trance into  a  preference  for  the  Viscount.  His  earnest  manner 
suddenly  became  chilled,  his  eloquence  checked.  Intuitively 
Caroline  penetrated  his  suspicions;  the  wish  to  prove  they 
were  mistaken  and  unjust  increased  her  confusion,  and  instead 
of  lessening,  confirmed  them.  St.  Eval  said  little  more  to  her 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  229 

during  the  evening  ;  but  he  watched  her.  He  saw  'Lord  Alph- 
inghani  whisperingly  address  her.  She  appeared  to  become 
more  painfully  confused,  and  St.  Eval  could  scarcely  restrain 
himself  from  hurrying  from  her  sight  for  ever;  but  he  did  re- 
strain himself,  only  to  be  more  tortured. 

The  Viscount  now  believed  the  hour  of  his  vengeance  waa 
at  hand,  when,  without  the  slightest  exertion,  he  might  disturb 
not  only  St  Eval's  peace,  but  that  of  Caroline. 

If  St.  Eval  had  but  heard  the  few  words  he  said  to  her, 
jealousy  would  have  been  instantly  banished,  but  for  that  he 
was  not  sufficiently  near  ;  he  could  only  mark  the  earnest  and 
insinuating  manner  which  the  Viscount  knew  so  well  how  to 
assume,  and  notice  her  confusion,  and  the  shade  of  melancholy 
expressed  on  her  features,  which  was  in  fact  occasioned  by 
Lord  St.  Eval's  sudden  desertion,  and  her  annoyance  at  the 
cause.  His  quick  imagination  attributed  all  to  the  effect  of 
Lord  Alphingham's  tender  words.  The  Viscount  was  well 
known  to  him.  and  near  the  end  of  the  evening  approached  and 
remained  in  conversation  by  his  side,  spite  of  the  haughty  re- 
serve maintained  by  the  young  Earl,  which  said  so  plainly, 
"  your  presence  is  unwelcome,"  that  it  would  speedily  have  dis- 
missed any  one  less  determined  ;  but  Lord  Alphingham  spoke 
admiringly  and  enthusiastically  of  Caroline.  Lord  St.  Eval 
listened,  as  if  fascinated  by  the  very  torture  he  endured. 
They  were  quite  alone,  and  after  a  few  such  observations,  the 
Viscount  lowered  his  voice  to  a  confidential  tone,  and  said, 
triumphantly — 

'•  Will  you  envy  me,  St.  Eval,  if  I  confess  that  I.  more 
than  any  other  man,  am  privileged  to  speak  in  Miss  Hamil- 
ton's praise,  having  once  had  the  honor  of  being  her  accepted 
lover,  and  had  not. cruel  parents  interfered,  might  now  have 
claimed  that  lovely  creature  as  my  own?  but  still  I  do  not  de- 
spair, for  the  affections  of  a  being  so  superior  once  given  to 
me,  as  they  have  been.  I  am  convinced  they  will  never  be 
another's.  I  am  treating  you  ag  a  friend,  St.  Eval,  you  will 
not  betray  me?" 

"  You  may  trust  me,  sir,"  replied  the  young  Earl,  coldly. 
'•  Your  confidence  has  been  given  unasked,  but  you  need  not 
fear  its  betrayal." 

'•  Thank  jou.  my  kind  friend;"  and  the  wily  villain  con- 
tinued his  deceiving  tale,  with  an  eloquence  we  will  not  trouble 
ourselves  to  repeat.  It  is  enough  to  know  its  effect  on  St. 
Eval  was  to  turn  him  from  the  room,  his  sensitive  feelings 


230  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

wrought  almost  to  madness  by  malignant  bitterness.  Lord  Al- 
phingham  looked  after  him,  and  then  turned  his  glance  on  Ca- 
roline, and  an  acute  physiognomist  might  easily  have  read  his 
inward  thoughts — "  My  vengeance  is  complete." 

Alphingham  had  more  than  once  mentioned  the  name  of 
the  Duchess  of  Rothbury ;  but  in  such  a  manner,  that  though 
it  sounded  well  enough  in  his  tale,  yet  when  afterwards  re 
called  by  the  young  Earl,  he  could  not  understand  in  what  po- 
sition she  stood  towards  them.  Lord  Alphingham  knew  well 
her  Grace's  character;  he  wished  St.  Eval  to  seek  her,  for  he 
felt  assured  what  she  would  say  would  confirm  his  tale,  and 
render  the  barrier  between  him  and  Ca-oline  more  impassable. 
His  plan  succeeded  admirably  :  St.  Eval  gallopped  off  to  Airs- 
lie  early  the  next  morning.  The  Duchess  welcomed  him  with 
the  greatest  cordiality,  for  he  was  a  favorite;  but  the  moment 
he  spoke  of  Caroline  her  manner  changed.  She  became  as  re- 
served as  she  had  previously  been  warm;  and  when  the  young 
Earl  frankly  asked  her  if  the  refusal  of  her  parents  had  been 
the  only  bar  to  her  union  with  the  Viscount,  she  referred  him 
to  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Hamilton.  That  she  was  aware  of  something 
to  Caroline's  disadvantage  appeared  very  evident,  and  that 
she  was  not  the  favorite  she  had  been  last  year,  equally  so.  St. 
Eval  left  her  more  disturbed  than  ever,  and  it  was  on  return- 
ing from  his  long  yet  hurried  ride  he  had  sought  his  sister  in 
the  mood  we  have  described. 

Lady  Gertrude  listened  with  earnest  attention.  The  tale 
startled  her,  but  she  disliked  the  very  sight  of  Lord  Alphing- 
ham;  she  believed  him  to  be  a  bad,  designing  man.  She  felt 
convinced  Caroline  did  love  her  brother,  much  as  appearances 
were  against  her;  and  both  these  feelings  urged  her  to  sift 
the  whole  matter  carefully,  and  not  permit  the  happiness  of 
two  individuals  to  be  sacrificed  to  what  might  be  but  the  idle 
invention  or  exaggerations  of  a  bad  man.  Her  ready  mind 
instantly  formed  its  plan,  which  calmly  but  earnestly  she  im- 
parted to  her  brother,  and  implored  his  consent  to  act  upon  it. 
Startled  and  disturbed,  St.  Eval  at  first  peremptorily  refused ; 
but  his  sister's  eloquence  at  length  succeeded. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  succeeding  day,  Caroline  Ha- 
milton received  the  following  brief  note: — 

"Will  you,  my  dear  Caroline,  receive  me  half  an  hour  this 
afternoon?  I  have  something  important  to  say;  I  have  van- 
ity enough  to  believe  as  it  concerns  me  it  will  interest  you 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  23  i 

We  shall  be  more  alone  at  your  house  than  mine,  or  I  mighk 
ask  you  to  come  to  me. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  GERTRUDE  LYLE." 

Completely  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  meaning  of  this 
little  note,  Caroline  merely  wrote  a  line  to  say  she  should  be 
quite  at  Lady  Gertrude'?  service  at  the  appointed  time;  and 
so  deeply  was  she  engro&sed  in  the  sad  tenor  of  her  o^n 
thoughts,  that  all  curiosity  as  to  this  important  communication 
was  dismissed. 

Three  o'clock  came,  and  so  did  Lady  Gertrude,  7/hose  first 
exclamation  was  to  notice  Caroline's  unusual  paleness. 

'•  Do  not  heed  my  looks,  dear  Gertrude,  I  am  perfectly 
well ;  and  now  that  you  are  before  me,  overwhelmed  with  curi- 
osity as  to  your  important  intelligence,"  said  Caroline,  whose 
heavy  eyes  belied  her  assurance  that  she  was  quite  well. 

"  Dearest  Caroline,"  said  Lady  Gertrude,  in  a  tone  of  feel- 
ing, "  I  am  so  interested  in  your  welfare,  that  I  cannot  bear 
to  see  the  change  so  evident  in  you ;  something  has  disturbed 
you.  Show  me  you  consider  me  your  friend,  and  tell  me  what 
it  is  " 

"  Not  to  you,  oh,  not  to  you  ;  I  cannot,  I  dare  not !"  burst 
involuntarily  from  the  lips  of  the  poor  girl,  in  a  tone  of  such 
deep  distress,  that  Lady  Gertrude  felt  pained.  "Gertrude,  do 
not  ask  me ;  I  own  I  am  unhappy,  very,  very  unhappy,  but  I 
deserve  to  be  so.  Oh,  I  would  give  worlds  that  I  might  speak 
it,  and  to  you ;  but  I  cannot — will  not !  But  do  not  refuse  me 
the  confidence  you  offered,"  she  added,  again  endeavoring  to 
smile,  '•  I  can  sympathize  in  your  happiness,  though  I  refuse 
yours  in  my  sadness." 

"I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  I  have  sorrow  or  joy  ti  im- 
part," said  Lady  Gertrude,  still  feelingly ;  for  she  guessed  why 
Caroline  believed  she  dared  not  confide  in  her,  and  she  hailed 
it  as  proof  that  she  was  right  in  her  surmise,  that  her  bro- 
ther's honorable  love  would  not  be  again  rejected. 

"  Eugene  seems  bent  on  again  quitting  England,  and  I  fear 
if  he  do.  he  will  not  return  home  again.  On  one  little  circum- 
stance depends  his  final  determination ;  my  persuasions  to  the 
contrary  have  entirely  failed." 

The  cheek  of  her  companion  blanched  even  paler  than  be- 
fore, two  or  three  large  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  then  slowly 
fell,  one  by  one,  upon  her  tightly-clasped  hands. 


232  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

K  And  if  you  have  failed,  who  will  succeed  ?"  she  asked 
with  a  strong  effort. 

"The  chosen  one,  whose  power  over  the  heart  of  St.  Eva! 
is  even  greater  than  mine,"  said  Lady  Gertrude,  steadily. 
"Ah,  Caroline,  when  a  man  has  learned  to  love,  the  affection 
of  a  sister  is  of  little  weight." 

"  He  does  love,  then,"  thought  Caroline,  and  her  heart 
swelled  even  to  bursting,  "and  he  goes  to  seek  her.  And  will 
not  the  being  Lord  St.  Eval  has  honored  ^with  his  love  second 
your  efforts  ?  if  she  be  in  England,  can  she  wish  him  to  quit 
it?"  she  said  aloud,  in  answer  to  her  friend. 

"  If  she  love  him,  she  will  not,"  said  Lady  Gertrude ;  "  but 
St.  Eval  fears  to  ask  the  question  that  decides  his  fate.  Strange 
and  wayward  as  he  is,  he  would  rather  create  certain  misery 
for  himself,  than  undergo  the  torture  of  being  again  re- 
fusal." 

For  a  few  minutes  Caroline  answered  not ;  then,  with  a  sud- 
den effort,  rallying  her  energies,  she  exclaimed,  as  if  in  jest — 

"  Why,  then,  does  he  not  make  you  his  messenger ;  the 
affection  you  bear  for  him  would  endow  you  with  an  eloquence, 
I  doubt  much  whether  his  own  would  surpass." 

She  would  have  spoken  more  in  the  same  strain,  but  the 
effort  failed ;  and  turning  away  from  Lady  GertruuVs  pene- 
trating glance,  which  she  felt  was  fixed  upon  her,  though  sho 
could  not  meet  it,  she  burst  into  tears. 

More  than  ever  convinced  of  the  truth  of  her  suspicions, 
Lady  Gertrude's  noble  mind  found  it  impossible  to  continue 
this  mode  of  discovery  any  longer.  She  saw  that  Caroline 
imagined  not  she  was  the  being  alluded  to ;  that  not  even  the 
phrase  "again  refused"  had  startled  her* into  consciousness, 
and  she  felt  it  was  unkind  to  distress  her  more. 

"  I  knew  it  was  false,"  she  exclaimed,  as  the  Viscount's  tale 
flashed  across  her  mind ;  then,  checking  herself,  she  took  Caro- 
line's cold  and  half-reluctant  hand,  and  added,  in  a  voice  of 
extreme  feeling,  "  Caroline,  dearest  Caroline,  forgive  my  having 
penetrated  your  secret ;  fear  me  not,  dear  girl,  I  honor  too 
much  the  feeling  which  dictates  your  conduct.  You  have 
learned  to  love  St.  Eval ;  you  have  repented  tho  wilful  and  ca- 
pric'ous  treatment  he  once  received  from  you.  Deny  it  not ; 
nay.  do  not  shrink  from  me,  and  think,  because  I  appear  so 
oalra,  I  cannot  feel  for  those  who  are  dear  to  me,  and  even 
sympathize  in  their  love.  I  do  not,  I  will  not  condemn  the 
past ;  I  did  once,  I  own,  but  since  I  have  known  you,  I  have 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  233 

/orgivcn  the  mistaken  wilfulness  of  a  misguided  girl.  You 
love  him — confess  that  I  am  right,  dearest " 

Caroline's  face  was  concealed  within  her  hand,  and  almost 
agonized  was  its  expression  as  she  looked  up. 

"Gertrude."  she  said,  in  a  low,  suffocated  voice,  "is  it  well, 
is  it  kind  in  you  thus  to  speak,  to  lead  me  to  avow  a  love  for 
one  who.  your  own  words  inform  me,  will  soon  be  the  husband 
of  another?" 

"  I  said  not  of  another,  my  dear  girl ;  forgive  me  this  stra- 
tagem to  penetrate  your  well-preserved  secret.  My  brother's 
happiness  is  so  dear  to  me,  I  could  not  trust  it  to  one  of  whose 
affection  I  was  not  certain.  I  am  not  aware  I  said  he  would 
soon  be  the  husband  of  another ;  since,  if  he  be  again  refused, 
that  he  never  will  be.  Simply,  then,  for  I  have  been  quite 
tormenting  enough,  Eugene  has  striven  long  with  himself 
to  conquer  his  love,  to  be  happy  as  your  friend ;  associating 
with  you  as  he  does  with  Emmeline,  but  he  cannot.  He  still 
loves  you,  Caroline,  as  devotedly,  as  faithfully — perhaps  more 
so  than  when  he  first  offered  you  his  hand ;  he  dares  not  renew 
that  offer  .himself,  for  he  feels  a  second  refusal  from  your  lips 
•would  wound  him  too  deeply.  Your  voice  may  chain  him  to 
England,  an  altered  and  a  happier  man,  or  send  him  from  its 
shores  a  misanthrope  and  wretched ;  it  is  for  you  to  decide, 
Caroline,  dearest.  Must  I  plead  with  that  eloquence,  which 
you  said  would  surpass  even  his  own,  or  will  the  pleadings  of 
your  own  kind  heart  suffice?" 

She  paused,  in  evident  emotion,  for  with  a  faint  cry  Caro- 
line had  thrown  herself  on  her  neck,  and  buried  her  cheek 
upon  her  shoulder.  Every  limb  trembled  with  agitation ; 
the  ecstatic  delight  of  that  one  moment — doubt  was,  indeed, 
at  an  end.  He  loved  her.  and  in  spite  of  her  faults  he  would 
cherish  her  with  tenderness  ;  he  had  chosen  her  as  his  wife — 
chosen  her,  though  she  had  rejected,  injured  him.  in  preference 
to  the  very  many  she  felt  so  much  more  worthy  than  herself; 
but  unalloyed  happiness  was  hers  only  for  a  few  fleeting 
niinutes;  he  knew  not  the  extent  of  her  imprudence — how 
strangely  and  deeply  she  had  been  fascinated  by  the  arts  of 
Lord  Alphingliam.  Could  he  love,  respect  her  as  the  partner 
of  his  life,  did  he  know  that?  and  for  a  moment  painfully  did 
she  long  to  conceal  it  from  him,  to  prevent  his  ever  knowing 
it;  but  no.  her  innate  nobility  and  ingenuousness  of  character 
would  not  be  thus  trampled  on.  She  wept,  and  Lady  Gertrude 
was  startled,  for  those  bitter  tears  were  not  the  signs  of  joy. 


234  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"Do  not  condemn  my  weakness,  dearest  Gertrude,"  sh« 
said  at  length,  struggling  for  composure.  ''  You  do  not  know 
why  I  weep;  you  cannot  guess  the  cause  of  tears  at  such  a 
moment.  Yes,  you  are  right ;  I  do  love  your  brother  with  an 
atYoction  equal  to  his  own,  but  I  thought  it  would  never  pass 
my  lips;  for  wilfully,  blindly  I  had  rejected  the  affection  of 
his  good  and  noble  heart;  I  had  intentionally  caused  him 
pain,  banished  him  from  his  country  and  his  friends,  and  my 
punishment  was  just.  I  thought  he  would  forget  one  so  ut- 
terly unworthy,  and  the  thought  was  agony.  But,  oh,  Ger- 
trude, I  shall  never  regain  his  love ;  when  he  knows  all,  he 
will  cease  to  trust  me  ;  his  esteem  I  have  lost  for  ever  !  Ger- 
trude, bear  with  me  ;  you  cannot  know  the  wretchedness  it  is 
to  feel  he  knows  not  all  my  folly.  The  girl  who  could  wilfully 
cast  aside  duty  and  obedience  to  a  parent,  listen  to  forbidden 
vows,  weakly  place  her  honor  in  the  power  of  one  against 
whom  she  had  been  warned — oh,  Gertrude,  Gertrude,  when 
St.  Eval  learns  this  tale,  he  will  spurn,  me  from  his  heart  ! 
and  yet  I  will  not  deceive  him.  he  shall  know  all,  and  be  free 
to  act  as  he  will — his  -proposals  shall  be  no  tie." 

The  flush  of  firm  yet  painful  resolution  dyed  her  cheek  as 
she  spoke,  and  checked  her  tears.  Alarmed  as  she  was  by  the 
incoherence  yet  connection  of  her  words  when  attached  to 
Lord  Aiphingham's  hints,  which  still  lingered  on  her  mind, 
yet  the  high-minded  Lady  Gertrude  felt  as  if  Caroline's  hon- 
orable determination  had  struck  a  new  chord  of  sympathy  with- 
in her  heart.  Integrity  itself  was  hers,  and  truth  in  others 
was  ever  to  her  their  most  attractive  quality. 

"  St.  Eval's  doubts  and  fears  have  been  already  painfully 
aroased,"  she  said,  gently  ;  "  an  open  explanation  from  you 
is  more  likely  to  make  him  happy  than  produce  the  effect  you 
so  much,  though  so  naturally  dread  :  fear  not  to  impart  it.  In 
the  relation  you  now  stand  to  each  other,  the  avowal  of  past 
errors  will  increase  rather  than  lessen  affection,  by  the  integ- 
rity it  will  display;  but  leave  it  till  years  have  passed,  and  if, 
instead  of  being  known  now,  it  is  then  discovered,  then,  indeed, 
might  you  fear,  with  some  show  of  justice,  the  loss  of  his 
esteem.  Such  will  not  be  now ;  but  tell  him  yourself,  dear 
Caroline,  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  the  scandalous  tale  he  heard 
a  night  or  two  ago  " 

"  What  did  he  hear?  if  you  know,  for  pity's  sake,  do  not 
conceal  it  from  me,  dearest  Gertrude  !"  entreated  Caroline, 
almost  gasping  for  breath  :  and  Lady  Gertrude,  without  hesi- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  235 

tation  or  abbreviation,  related  the  whole  tale  her  brother  had 
imparted  to  her,  dwelling  on  the  suffering  he  endured,  as  he 
fancied  Caroline's  conduct  confirmed  the  words  he  heard. 

'•  Then  is  it,  indeed,  time  for  me  to  speak,  though  my  tale 
be  one  of  shame,"  she  exclaimed,  as  Lady  Gertrude  paused, 
and  indignation  restored  her  usual  energy.  "  Never  were  at- 
tentions so  revolting  to  me  as  were  those  of  Lord  Alphingham 
that  night.  He  knew  he  had  no  right  to  address  me,  and, 
therefore,  did  lie  ever  refrain  when  mamma  was  present.  Ger- 
trude, solemnly,  sacredly,  I  protest  he  has  no  hold  on  my 
affections — he  dare  not  say  he  Las — nor  ever  again  venture  to 
demand  my  hand  ;  it  has  been  irrevocably  refused.  Not  only 
would  my  own  will  prevent  my  ever  becoming  his,  but  I 
have — "  she  paused  a  moment,  for  Percy's  fatal  secret  was  on 
the  point  of  escaping  from  her  lips,  but  checking  herself,  she 
added.  l;  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say  why,  but  an  inseparable 
barrier  is  placed  between  us.  Listen  to  me.  Gertrude,  you 
will  condemn  me.  be  it  so  ;  but  I  implore,  I  beseech  you  to 
believe  me  true."  Then,  without  further  hesitation,  Caroline 
briefly  /et  circumstantially  related  all  those  events  in  her  life 
with  which  our  readers  are  so 'well  acquainted.  She  did  not 
suppress  one  point,  or  endeavor  in  the  least  to  excuse  herself, 
and  Lady  Gertrude,  as  she  listened  to  that  unvarnished  tale 
of  youthful  error,  felt  her  heart  glow  more  warmly  towards 
her  companion,  and  her  eye  glisten  in  sympathy  for  the  pain 
she  felt  Caroline  was  inflicting  on  herself.  Lady  Gertrude 
could  feel  for  others ;  twice  had  her  carriage  been  announced, 
but  she  heeded  not  the  summons  ;  a  third  came,  just  as  Caro- 
line had  ceased  to  speak,  and  silently  she  rose  to  depart.  She 
met  the  imploring  look  of  her  young  friend,  and  folding  her  to 
h  *r  heart,  she  said,  in  a  low  and  gentle  voice — 

';  Ask  not  me.  my  dearest  girl ;  St.  Eval  shall  come  and 
speak  for  himself."  She  kissed  her  affectionately,  and  was  gone. 

Caroline  seated  herself  on  a  low  couch,  and  closing  her  eyes 
on  every  outward  object,  she  gave  herself  up  to  thought. 
Might  she  indeed  be  happy — were  the  errors  of  her  former 
years  so  forgiven,  that  she  would  indeed  be  blessed  with  the 
husband  of  her  choice  ?  Had  St.  Eval  so  conquered  pride  as 
again  to  seek  her  love — would  the  blessing  of  her  parents  now 
sanctify  her  marriage  ?  it  could  not  be  ;  it  was  too  much  bliss 
— happiness  of  which  she  was  utterly  unworthy.  Time  rolled 
by  unheeded  in  these  meditations  ;  she  was  quite  unconscious 
*iat  nearly  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  Lady  Gertrude  had 


236  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

left  her ;  scarcely  did  it  appear  five  minutes,  and  yet  it  must 
have  been  more,  for  it  was  the  voice  of  St.  Eval  himself  that 
roused  her,  that  addressed  her  as  his  own  bride.  St.  Eval 
himself,  who  clasped  her  impetuously  to  his  beating  heart,  im- 
printed one  long,  lingering  kiss  upon  her  cheek,  and  murmured 
blessings  on  her  head.  He  had  waited  for  the  return  of  his 
sister  to  the  carriage,  in  a  state  of  impatience  little  to  be  en- 
vied, flung  himself  in  after  her,  and  in  a  very  brief  space  had 
heard  and  heard  again  every  particular  of  her  interview  with 
Caroline.  His  doubts  were  satisfied,  not  a  lingering  fear  re- 
mained. 

"  Gertrude  tcJd  me,  you  said  not  to  her  the  magic  word 
that  will  seal  my  happiness,  though  she  wrung  from  you  that 
precious  secret  of  your  love,"  said  the  young  Lord,  after  many 
very  fond  words  had  been  exchanged  between  them,  and  nearly 
an  hour  had  passed  away  in  that  unrestrained  confidence ; 
"  nor  have  I  heard  it  pass  your  lips.  You  have  told  me  that 
you  love  me,  Caroline  ;  will  you  not  promise  that  but  a  very 
•shoH  time  shall  pass,  ere  you  will  indeed  be  mine  ;  that  you 
will  not  sentence  me  to  a  long  probation  ere  that  happy  day  is 
fixed?" 

"  It  is  not  in  my  power  to  answer  you,  St.  Eval,"  and 
though  her  tone  was  sportive,  her  words  startled  him.  "  I 
cannot  even  promise  to  be  yours  ;  my  fate  is  not  in  my  own 
hands." 

"  Caroline  !"  exclaimed  the  alarmed  young  man,  "  what 
can  you  mean  ?" 

"  Simply,  that  I  have  vowed  solemnly  and  sacredij  never 
to  marry  without  the  consent  and  blessing  of  my  parents.  I 
have  given  you  all  I  can,  to  them  I  refer  you  for  the  rest." 

"Then  I  am  satisfied,"  replied  St.  Eval,  the  flush  of  joyous 
excitement  staining  his  cheek,  and  rendering  his  expressive 
countenance  more  than  usually  handsome,  by  the  animation  it 
produced. 

Mrs.  Hamilton,  with  Emmeline  and  Ellen,  had  returned 
from  their  ride  rather  later  than  usual,  for  they  had  gone  to 
see  a  friend  some  few  miles  out  of  town,  and  finding  it  near 
the  hour  of  dinner,  they  had  dispersed  to  their  dressing-rooms 
instead  of  entering  the  drawing-room  as  usual.  On  inquiring 
for  Caroline,  if  she  had  been  out  with  Lady  Gertrude,  or  was 
still  at  home,  she  heard,  to  her  extreme  astonishment,  that 
Miss  Hamilton  had  not  gone  out,  but  that  Lord  St.  Eval  had 
been  with  her  above  an  hour,  nor  had  she  left  him  to  obey  the 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  237 

eummons  of  the  dressing-bell,  as  usual.  A  throb  of  pleasure 
shot  through  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  she  scarcely  knew 
wherefore,  for  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  Lord  St  Eval  to 
spend  an  hour  at  her  house,  but  it  was  that  he  should  thus 
have  sought  the  society  of  Caroline  alone. 

''  Had  either  of  her  sons  been  with  him  ?"  she  asked,  and 
the  answer  was  in  the  negative. 

Martyn  silently  concluded  her  task,  for  she  saw  deep 
thought  was  on  her  lady's  brow,  which  she  was  too  respectful 
to  disturb ;  an  earnest  thought  it  was,  it  might  have  been  that 
silent  prayer  had  mingled  with  it.  Still  was  that  wish  upper- 
most in  Mrs.  Hamilton's  mind,  that  she  might  one  day  see  her 
Caroline  the  happy  wife  of  Lord  St.  Eval ;  but  when  she  en- 
tered the  drawing-room,  words  were  not  needed  to  explain  the 
scene  before  her.  Mr.  Hamilton  had  drawn  his  daughter  to 
him,  and  was  pressing  the  young  Earl's  hand  in  his  with  a 
grasp  that  spoke  volumes. 

'•  St.  Eval.  you  have  been  too  long  the  son  of  my  affections, 
for  one  instant  to  doubt  my  consent,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  heard  her 
husband  say,  as  she  entered ;  "  it  is  yours,  freely,  gladly. 
Speak  not  of  fortune,  I  would  give  my  child  to  you,  had  you 
but  yourself  to  offer.  But  I  am  but  a  secondary  personage 
in  this  business,"  he  added,  playfully ;  "  there  is  the  enchant- 
ress who  holds  the  fate  of  my  Caroline  more  firmly  than  I  do. 
Away  with  you,  St.  Eval,  plead  your  cause  to  her." 

'•  Caroline,  my  o\vn.  does  your  happiness  depend  on  my 
consent,  or  have  you  done  this  merely  for  my  sake?"  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Hamilton,  as  her  child  clung  in  silence  to  her 
neck,  and  Lord  St.  Eval  seized  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips,  as  if  eloquent  silence  should  tell  his  tale,  too,  better  than 
words.  Mrs.  Hamilton  spoke  in  a  voice  so  low,  as  to  be  heard 
only  by  Caroline. 

"  Speak  to  me  love ;  tell  me  that  St.  Eval  will  be  the  hus- 
band of  your  free,  unbiassed  choice,  and  my  fondest  blessing 
shall  be  yours."  Caroline's  answer  was  inaudible  to  all,  save 
to  the  ear  of  maternal  affection,  to  her  mother  it  was  enough. 

"  Take  her.  St.  Eval ;  my  consent,  my  earnest  wish  to  be- 
hold you  united  has  long  been  yours ;  may  God  in  heaven 
bless  you.  my  children,  and  make  you  happy  in  each  other!" 

Solemnly  she  spoke;  her  earnestness  was  affecting,  it  struck 
to  their  hearts  ;  for  a  moment,  there  was  silence,  which  Mrs. 
Hamilton  was  the  first  to  break. 

"  Does  my  Caroline  intend  appearing  at  dinner  in  this  coa- 


238  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

tunie?"  she  asked,  playfully,  alluding  to  her  daughter's  morn- 
ing dress.  Startled  and  blushing,  Caroline,  for  the  first  time, 
perceived  her  mother  was  dressed  for  dinner,  and  her  father, 
determining  to  banish  all  appearance  of  gravity,  held  up  his 
watch,  which  pointed  to  some  few  minutes  after  the  usual 
dinner-hour.  Glad  to  escape  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  solitude 
of  her  own  room,  Caroline  hastily  withdrew  her  hand  from  St. 
Eval's  detaining  grasp,  and  smiling  a  brief  farewell,  brushed 
by  Emmeline  and  Ellen,  who  were  that  instant  entering,  "with- 
out speaking  indeed,  but  with  very  evident  marks  of  confu- 
sion, which  Mr.  Hamilton  very  quickly  explained  to  the  ex- 
treme satisfaction  of  all  parties. 

Caroline  was  not  long  before  she  returned.  Happiness 
had  caused  her  eyes  to  sparkle  with  a  radiance  her  parents  had 
not  seen  for  many  a  long  day ;  and  they  felt  as  they  gazed  on 
her,  now  indeed  was  she  worthy  to  be  the  honored  wife  of  St. 
Eval,  and  their  thoughts  were  raised  in  silent  unison  to  hea- 
ven for  the  blessing  thus  vouchsafed  to  them.  And  scarcely 
could  Mr  Hamilton  restrain  the  emotion  which  swelled  his 
bosom,  as  he  thought,  had  it  not  been  for  the  untiring  care 
the  bright  example  of  that  mother,  his  child,  instead  of  being 
a  happy  bride,  might  now  have  been — he  shuddered  as  he 
thought,  and  the  inward  words  were  checked,  he  could  not 
give  them  vent,  they  were  hidden  in  the  silent  recesses  of  his 
own  breast;  and  did  not  that  same  thought  dwell  in  the  mind 
of  his  wife,  when  she  contrasted  the  present  with  the  past?  It 
did,  but  she  looked  not  on  herself  as  the  cause  of  her  child's 
escape  from  wretchedness  and  sin.  Her  efforts  she  knew 
would  have  been  as  nought,  without  the  blessing  of  Him 
whose  aid  she  had  ever  sought;  and  if  indeed  the  thought  of 
her  had  arrested  Caroline  on  the  brink  of  ruin,  it  was  His 
work,  and  Him  alone  she  praised.  She  looked  on  the  glowing 
countenance  of  her  daughter;  she  marked  the  modest  gentle- 
ness of  her  demeanor,  the  retiring  dignity  with  which  she 
checked  the  effusions  of  her  own  fond  affection,  and  received 
the  attentions  of  her  devoted  lover,  and  she  felt  sure  those 
few  moments  of  solitude  had  been  passed  in  thanksgiving  and 
prayer  to  Him  who  had  pardoned  the  errors  of  the  past,  and 
granted  such  unlooked-for  joy.  And  she  guessed  aright,  for 
the  mind  of  Caroline  had  not  been  entirely  engrossed  by  the 
bright  and  glowing  visions  which  anticipation  in  such  a  mo- 
ment of  our  lives  is  apt  to  place  before  us.  Her  thoughts 
during  the  last  year  had  been  secretly  under  the  guidance  of 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  239 

the  most  rigid  self-control,  and  thus  permitted  her  to  raise 
them  from  the  happiness  of  earth  to  blessedness  yet  more  ex- 
alted. Oh  !  who  can  say  that  religion  is  the  heavy  chain  that 
fetters  us  to  gloom  and  everlasting  sadness;  that  in  chastening 
the  pleasures  of  earth,  it  offers  no  substantial  good  in  return  1 
True  piety,  opening  the  heart  by  its  sweet,  refreshing  influ- 
ence, causes  us  to  enjoy  every  earthly  blessing  with  a  zest,  the 
heart  in  which  the  love  of  God  is  not  an  inmate  will  seek  in 
vain  to  know.  It  is  piety  that  strengthens,  purifies  affection. 
Piety,  that  looks  on  happiness  vouchsafed  us  here,  as  harbin- 
gers of  a  state  where  felicity  will  be  eternal.  Piety  that,  in 
lifting  up  the  grateful  soul  to  God.  heightens  our  joys,  and 
renders  that  pure  and  lasting  which  would  otherwise  be  eva- 
nescent and  fleeting.  Piety,  whoss  soft  and  mildly-burning 
torch  continues  to  enlighten  life,  long,  long  after  the  lustre  of 
worldly  pleasures  has  passed  away.  It  was  this  blessed  feel- 
ing, kindled  in  earliest  infancy  by  the  fostering  hand  of  pa- 
rental love,  which  now  characterized  and  composed  every  emo- 
tion of  Caroline's  swelling  bosom,  which  bade  her  feel  that  this 
indeed  was  happiness.  With  blushing  modesty  she  received 
the  eagerly-offered  congratulations  of  her  affectionate  family  ; 
the  delighted  embrace  which  Percy  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
joy  found  himself  compelled  to  give  her. . 

"  Now,  indeed,  may  I  hope  the  past  will  never  again  cross 
my  mind  to  torment  me,"  he  whispered  to  his  sister,  and 
wrung  St.  Eval's  hand  with  a  violence  that  forced  the  young 
man  laughingly  to  cry  for  mercy.  There  had  been  a  shade  of 
unusual  gloom  shrouding  the  open  countenance  and  usually 
frank  demeanor  of  Percy  since  his  return  from  Oxford,  for 
wliich  his  parents  and  sisters  could  not  account,  but  as  he 
seemed  to  shrink  from  all  observation  on  the  subject,  they  did 
not  ask  the  cause;  but  this  unexpected  happiness  seemed  to 
make  him  for  a  few  following  days  as  usual  the  gayest,  mer- 
riest member  of  his  amiable  family. 

Often  in  these  days  of  happiness  did  Caroline  think  on 
the  qualities  which  Lady  Gertrude  had  once  said  should 
adorn  the  wife  of  her  brother.  Faults  he  could  pardon,  if 
they  were  redeemed  by  affection,  and  ingenuousness  unsullied 
by  the  slightest  artifice.  Affection  she  well  knew  she  possess- 
ed :  but  she  also  knew  that,  to  be  as  unreserved  as  would  form 
the  happiness  of  her  husband,  she  must  effectually  banish  that 
pride,  which  she  knew  still  lurked  within.  Often  would  she 
converse  on  these  things  when  alone  with  her  mother,  and 


240  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

implore  her  advice  as  to  the  best  method  of  securing  not  only 
the  love  but  the  esteem  of  St  Eval. 

"  Gertrude  was  quite  right  in  the  estimate  of  her  brother's 
character,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  would  at  such  times  observe,  her 
fond  heart  fully  repaid  for  past  anxiety  and  disappointment 
by  this  confidence  in  her  child  ;  "  and  so  too  are  you,  dearest, 
in  your  idea  that  not  the  faintest  sign  of  pride  must  mark 
your  intercourse  with  him.  Perhaps  he  is  more  reserved  than 
proud ;  indeed,  in  his  case,  I  cannot  call  it  pride,  but  it  is  that 
kind  of  reserve  which  would  jar  most  painfully  did  it  come  in 
contact  with  any  thing  resembling  pride  Had  you  grown  up 
such  as  you  were  in  childhood,  your  union  with  St.  Eval, 
much  as  you  might  think  you  loved  each  other,  would  not 
have  been  productive  of  lasting  happiness  to  either.  Let  him 
see  dependence  is  not  merely  a  profession  which  your  every 
action  would  contradict ;  from  independence  springs  so  many 
evils,  that  I  feel  sure  you  will  avoid  it.  It  is,  I  regret  to  say, 
a  prevailing  error  in  those  circles  wherein  your  rank  will 
entitle  you  to  mingle  ;  an  error  that  must  ever  endanger  con- 
jugal happiness.  When  a  woman  marries,  the  world,  except 
as  the  arbiter  of  propriety,  ought  to  be  forgotten  ;  all  her 
endeavors  to  please,  to  soothe,  to  cheer,  must  still  be  exerted 
even  more  than  before  marriage,  but  exerted  only  for  her 
husband  ;  not  one  little  pleasing  art,  not  one  accomplishment 
should  be  given  up,  but  used  as  affection  dictates,  to  en- 
hance her  value  in  the  eyes  of  him  whose  felicity  it  should 
be  her  principal  aim  to  increase.  You  will  be  placed  in  an 
exalted  station  in  the  opinion  of  the  world,  my  beloved 
child,  a  station  of  temptation,  flattery,  danger,  more  so  than 
has  ever  yet  been  yours;  but  I  do  not  tremble  now  as  I  did, 
too  forebodingly,  when  the  world  was  first  opened  to  your 
view.  You  have  learned  to  mistrust  your  own  strength,  to  seek 
it  where  alone  it  can  be  found,  to  examine  your  every  action  by 
the  Word  of  God,  and  with  these  feelings  you  are  safe.  My 
Caroline  will  not  fail  in  duty  to  her  husband  or  hersulf." 

"  Nor  to  you,  my  mother,  my  devoted  mother  ! "  exclaimed 
Caroline,  as  she  fondly  -kissed  her.  "  It  is  to  you,  next  to  my 
God.  I  owe  this  blessing  ;  and  oh,  if  it  be  my  lot  to  be  a  mother, 
may  I  be  to  my  children,  as  far,  at  least,  as  one  so  much  in- 
ferior in  piety  and  virtue  can  be,  what  you  have  been  to  me. 
Oh,  might  I  but  resemble  you,  as  my  full  heart  has  so  lately 
longed,  St.  Eval  might  be  happy !" 

At  the  earnest  entreaty  of  St.  Eval  and  Caroline,  both 


rHE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  241 

families  consented  that  the  ceremonial  of  their  marriage  should 
take  place  in  the  same  venerable  church  where  the  first  childish 
prayers  of  Caroline  had  ascended  from  a  house  of  God.  and 
the  service  be  performed  by  t'he  revered  and  pious  rector  of 
Oakwood,  the  clergyman  who,  from  her  earliest  childhood,  sho 
had  been  taught  to  respect  and  love,  as  the  humble  represen- 
tative of  Him  whose  truths  he  so  ably  Aaught.  Caroline  had 
consented  to  name  the  second  week  of  September  as  the 
period  of  her  espousals.  The  few  chosen  friends  of  both 
families  who  were  to  be  invited  to  the  ceremony  were  to  assem- 
ble in  the  hospitable  halls  of  Oakwood,  and  earnestly  did  every 
member  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  family  hope  that  the  loug-absent 
sailor,  Edward  Fortescue,  who  was  soon  expected  home,  might 
arrive  in  time  to  be  present  at  the  marriage  of  his  cousin. 
How  the  young  heart  of  his  orphan  sister  fluttered  with  delight 
at  the  thought  of  beholding  him  again  we  will  not  attempt  to 
describe,  but  it  was  shared  with  almost  equal  warmth  by  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  whose  desire  was  so  great  that  her  gallant  nephew, 
the  brave  preserver  of  her  husband,  might  be  present  at  the 
approaching  joyful  event,  that  she  laughingly  told  Ellen  she 
certainly  would  postpone  the  ceremony  till  Edward  arrived, 
whatever  opposition  she  might  have  to  encounter. 

The  engagement  of  the  Right  Honorable  Earl  St.  Eval,  the 
heir  to  the  marquisate  of  Malvern,  embracing  such  rich  posses- 
sions, with  a  plain  gentleman's  daughter,  was  a  matter  of 
mingled  wonder,  scorn,  admiration,  and  applause  to  the  fashion- 
able world  ;  but  these  opinions  and  emotions  were  little  re- 
garded, save  as  a  matter  of  continued  jest  to  Percy,  who 
smused  himself  by  collecting  all  the  reports  he  could,  and  re- 
peating them  at  home,  warning  them  against  a  marriage  which 
caused  such  a  universal  sensation.  It  might  be  supposed 
this  sensation  would  have  been  felt  in  various  ways  in  the 
family  of  Montrose  Grahame ;  but  it  happened  that  Annie 
was  so  engrossed  with  her  own  plans,  her  mind  so  occupied  by 
one  interesting  subject,  that  she  and  Lord  Alphingham  had 
but  little  time  to  think  of  any  thing  but  each  other.  Annoyed 
they  were  indeed,  for  all  their  designs  were  foiled;  St.  Eval 
and  Caroline  were  happy,  spite  of  their  efforts  to  the  contrary. 
Lady  Helen  was  really  so  delighted  at  the  prospects  of  Caro- 
line, who  had  ever  been  a  favorite  with  her,  that  she  actually 
exerted  herself  so  much  as  to  call  in  person  to  offer  her  best 
wishes,  and  promise  that  she  would  spend  the  whole  winter  at 
Woodlands,  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony.  Lilla  was  over- 
11  * 


242  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

joyed,  for  Mrs.  Hamilton  promised  she  should  be  tmong  tha 
guests  at  Oakwood.  Mr.  Grahame,  whose  friendship  with  Mr. 
Hamilton  would  have  and  did  render  him  most  interested  in 
the  event,  was  at  Paris  when  their  engagement  was  first  pub- 
lished, but  his  warmly-written  letters  to  his  friend  proclaimed 
his  intention  of  very  soon  returning  to  England,  but  till  then 
entreating  the  young  couple  to  accept  his  «incerest  prayers  and 
best  wishes  for  their  happiness,  and  warmly  congratulated  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hamilton  on  the  prospects  of  their  child ;  but  there 
was  a  sadness  pervading  his  letters  which  gave  them  pain  to 
note,  for  they  knew  too  well  the  cause. 

The  letters  of  Mary  Greville,  too,  added  pleasure  to  the 
betrothed.  Informed  by  Herbert  of  botli  past  and  present 
events,  St.  Eval's  long  aifection  for  Caroline,  which  he  play- 
fully hoped  would  solve  the  mystery  of  his  not  gratifying  her 
wishes,  and  falling  in  love  with  Miss  Manvers,  Mary  wroto 
with  equal  sportiveness,  that  she  was  quite  satisfied  with  his 
choice,  and  pleased  that  his  residence  at  Lago  Guardia  had 
enabled  her  to  become  so  well  acquainted  with  one  about  to  be 
so  nearly  connected  with  her  Herbert. 

About  a  week  or  fortnight  before  Mr.  Hamilton's  intended 
return  to  Oakwood,  Percy  one  morning  received  a  letter  which 
appeared  to  produce  excessive  agitation.  But  as  he  evidently 
did  not  wish  it  remarked,  no  notice  was  taken,  except  by  Her- 
bert, to  whom  alone  he  had  shown  the  letter,  and  who  seemed 
equally  interested,  though  not  so  much  agitated  by  its  contents. 
To  the  anxious  inquiries  of  his  parents,  if  individual  embar- 
rassment or  distress  occasioned  Percy's  uneasiness,  Herbert 
answered  readily  in  the  negative  ;  that  the  'dtter  informed 
them  of  the  death  of  an  unfortunate  individual  in  whose  fate 
both  he  and  Percy  had  been  most  deeply  interested.  Trusting 
in  the  well-known  integrity  of  their  sons,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton inquired  no  farther,  and  dismissed  the  subject ;  but  Percy 
did  not  rouse  himself  from  his  gloomy  abstraction  till  startled 
by  intelligence,  which  regard  for  his  father's  friend  Grahame 
could  not  permit  him  to  bear  with  calmness. 

Two  mornings  after  the  receipt  of  that  letter,  as  the  family, 
with  the  addition  of  St.  Eval,  were  sitting  together  after  break- 
fast, ere  they  separated  to  the  various  avocations  of  the  day, 
Lord  Henry  D'Este  bustled  in  with  a  countenance  expressive 
of  something  extraordinary. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news?"  was  his  first  eager  exclamation. 

"If  we  had,  it  would  be  no  news,"  replied  Emmeline, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  243 

archly :  (:  but  we  have  heard  nothing.  Papa  has  something 
else  to  do  than  to  seek-  out  news  for  me,  ditto  the  Right 
Honorable  Lord  St.  Eval.  Percy  has  been  suddenly  con- 
verted into  the  spirit  of  gloom,  and  to  Herbert  it  is  in  vain  to 
look  for  gossip,  so,  for  pity's  sake,  satisfy  my  curiosity." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  say  I  have  been  exciting  it  unnecessa- 
rily/' he  answered.  "  An  elopement  is  too  common  a  thing  now 
to  cause  much  astonishment." 

"  It  depends  on  the  parties,"  observed  Mr.  Hamilton. 
fc  Who  are  they  ?" 

"  Those,  or  rather  one  of  them,  I  fear,  for  her  father's  sake, 
in  whom  you  will  be  too  deeply  interested — Lord  Alphingham 
and  Miss  Grahame." 

"  Annie  !"  burst  from  Caroline's  lips,  in  an  accen*  of  dis- 
tress that  struck  all,  and  fell  somewhat  painfully  on  Lord  St. 
Eval's  ear,  when  starting  from  the  seat  she  had  occupied  near 
him.  she  sprung  forward,  and  wildly  continued,  "  when — when  ? 
Lord  Henry,  for  pity's  sake,  tell  me  !  is  there  no  time  ?  Can 
they  not  be  overtaken?  When  did  they  go?" 

Bewildered  at  the  wild  earnestness  of  her  manner,  at  the 
muttered  execration  of  Percy,  Lord  Henry  was  for  a  moment 
silent;  but,  on  the  repeated  entreaty  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, he  said  that  the  particulars  were  not  yet  all  known,  except 
that  she  had  been  staying  with  her  friend,  that  same  lady  of 
rank  in  whose  family  Miss  Malison  had  been  installed ;  that 
from  her  house  the  elopement  had  taken  place,  when,  he  did 
not  exactly  know ;  the  report  had  only  that  morning  gained 
credit.  Lady  Helen  was  not  in  the  least  aware  of  what  had 
passed,  nor  would  she,  in  all  probability,  till  Annie's  own  let- 
ter announced  it,  as  she  turned  a  careless  ear  to  all  that  her 
friends  had  hinted.  He  greatly  feared,  however,  that  it  was 
useless  to  think  of  overtaking  them ;  they  had  been  seen  and 
recognized,  on  the  road  between  York  and  Berwick,  by  a  friend 
of  his,  three  days  previous.  He  had  at  first  regarded  his 
friend's  letter  as  a  mere  jest,  but  finding  he  had  written  tho 
same  to  many  others,  and  that  the  report  was  gaining  ground, 
he  felt  sufficient  interest  in  Mr.  Grahame  to  discover  the  truth, 
that  he  might  be  informed  of  it,  and  take  measures  accord- 
ingly, and  as  Grahame  was  from  home,  he  thought  the  best 
thing  he  could  do  was  to  tell  the  whole  story  to  Mr.  Hamilton. 

'•  And  is  there  indeed  no  hope  ?  Can  they  not  be  over 
taken  ?;'  again  demanded  Caroline,  almost  choked  with  an  agi 
tation  for  which  even  her  parents  could  not  account. 


244  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Lord  Henry  did  not  think  there  was  the  slightest  possi 
bility,  and  unable  to  control  her  emotion,  for  she  could  not 
forget  the  long  years  she  had  regarded  Annie  as  her  friend, 
the  favorite  companion  of  her  childhood.  Caroline  sunk,  pale  as 
death,  on  the  nearest  seat.  Her  mother  and  St.  Eval  ap- 
proached her  in  some  alarm,  the  former  to  demand  the  cause 
of  this  agitation,  and  implore  her  to  be  calm ;  the  latter  to 
connect,  with  a  swelling  heart  and  trembling  frame,  this  deep 
en;otion  with  the  words  of  Lord  Alphingham,  which  he  vainly 
endeavored  to  forget ;  but  Percy  alone  had  power  to  restore 
her  to  any  degree  of  composure ;  taking  her  trembling  hand  in 
his,  he  whispered  a  few  words,  and  their  effect  was  instan- 
taneous. 

"  Thank  God,  she  will  be  at  least  his  wife  !"  escaped  Care- 
line's  quivering  lips,  and  then  burst  into  tears. 

"  Mother,  do  not  ask  more  now.  St.  Eval,  do  not  doubt 
my  sister,  her  agitation  arose  for  Miss  Grahame  alone,  not 
for  the  villain,  the  cold-hearted  villain,  Alphingham !"  ex- 
claimed Percy,  in  a  low  but  impressive  voice,  as  he  alternately 
addressed  his  mother  and  the  Earl,  and  then,  as  if  fearing 
their  further  questions,  he  hastily  turned  away  to  join  his 
father  in  demanding  every  possible  information  from  Lord 
Henry;  and  perceiving  that  Caroline  was  becoming  calm,  and 
also  that  St.  Eval  looked  somewhat  disturbed,  Mrs  Hamilton 
followed  her  son  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Still  St.  Eval 
spoke  not,-and  Caroline,  as  she  read  the  reproach,  the  doubt 
expressed  upon  his  features,  for  a  moment  felt  her  natural 
pride  swelling  high  within  her,  that  he  could  for  one  moment 
permit  a  doubt  of  her  truth  to  enter  his  mind  ;  but  her  resolu- 
tion, her  mother's  advice,  the  observation  of  Lady  Gertrude, 
all  rose  to  combat  with  returning  pride,  and  they  conquered. 

'•  Eugene,  dearest  Eugene,"  she  said,  as  she  extended  her 
hand  towards  him,  "you  have,  indeed,  every  reason  to  look 
disturbed.  In  my  deep  anxiety  for  her  whom  I  so  long  loved 
as  my  friend,  I  forgot  that  my  agitation  might  indeed  confirm 
the  unworthy  tale  you  heard.  Forgive  me,  Eugene  ;  I  know 
that  I  have  pained  you,  but,  indeed,  I  meant  it  not.  If  Lord 
Alphingham  did  cross  my  mind,  it  was  in  detestation,  in  ab- 
horrence, that  he  should  thus  have  acted.  I  trembled  for 
Annie,  for  her  alone,  for  the  fearful  fate  that,  when  Lord 
Henry  first  spoke.  1  believed  must  be  her  lot.  Were  I  at  lib- 
erty to  disclose  all,  you  would  not  wonder  such  should  have 
been  my  feelings,  Eugene,"  she  added,  in  an  accent  of  gentle 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  245 

reproach.  "  Must  I  indeed  solemnly  and  sacredly  assure  yon. 
that  my  agitation  was  occasioned  by  no  lingering  affection  for 
Lord  Alphingham  ?  will  nothing  else  satisfy  you?  Is  it  kind, 
is  it  generous  thus  to  doubt  me?" 

Softened  at  once,  ashamed  of  his  own  jealous  tendency,  the 
young  Earl  could  only  implore  her  forgiveness,  assure  her  ho 
had  not  the  faintest  doubt  remaining;  and  suggesting,  air 
would  revive  her  sooner  than  any  thing,  he  drew  her  to  the 
open  window  of  the  adjoining  room,  which  looked  out  on  the 
little  garden,  and  there  they  remained  in  apparently  earnest 
conversation,  till  Caroline,  to  her  extreme  astonishment,  was 
summoned  by  her  cousin  to  luncheon,  and  Lord  St.  Eval  sud- 
denly discovered  he  had  permitted  the  whole  morning  to  slip 
away  in  idleness,  when  he  imagined  he  had  so  very  much 
to  do. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  were  more  grieved  than  surprised 
at  the  intelligence  they  had  heard;  but  in  what  manner  to  act, 
what  measures  to  take  they  knew  not.  Grahame  was  expected 
to  arrive  in  England  on  the  morrow,  or  the  next  day  at  tfcc 
farthest,  and  his  agony  they  dreaded  to  witness ;  they  feared 
lest  reports  should  reach  him  ere  he  was  in  any  way  prepared, 
and  Mr.  Hamilton  determined  on  travelling  instantly  to  Dover, 
thnt  he  might  be  there  ready  to  receive  him,  and  console  to  the 
best  of  his  ability  this  mistaken  but  truly  affectionate  father. 
Percy,  rousing  himself,  entered  with  activity  into  all  his  fath- 
er's plans ;  but  Mrs.  Hamilton  fancied  that  he  too  had  some 
plan  to  follow  up,  which  his  absence  two  or  three  days  from 
home  confirmed.  Nor  was  it  idle  sympathy  she  felt ;  that 
same  day  she  sought  the  residence  of  Lady  Helen. 

Scarcely  ever  did  she  enter  that  house  without  being  struck 
by  the  melancholy  pervading  it.  Wrapped  in  her  own  plea- 
sures, her  own  desires  and  amusements,  Annie  never  cast  one 
thought  on  her  mother,  whose  declining  health  it  would  have 
been  her  duty  to  tend  and  soothe ;  indeed,  she  scarcely  ever 
entered  her  room,  and  believing  her  parent's  ailments  were 
all  fancy,  mado  it  a  rule  to  take  no  notice  of  them.  Cecil 
liked  not  gloom  and  quiet,  and  his  fashionable  cousins  occu- 
pied almost  all  liis  time.  He  could  not  comprehend,  much  lesa 
return  the  deep  affection  his  mother  felt  for  him  :  and  Lilla, 
whose  naturally  warm  heart  and  right  principles  wottld  have 
made  her  an  affectionate  attendant  on  her  mother's  couch,  was 
seldom  at  home  to  perform  her  part.  But  already  had  Lady 
Helen  felt  the  difference  a  year's  residence  with  Mrs.  Douglas 


U46  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

had  made  in  her  younger  girl ;  already  had  her  indolent  na- 
ture felt  the  comfort  of  her  presence,  and  bitterly  regretted 
when  her  short  vacations  were  at  an  end,  for  then  she  was  in- 
deed alone. 

On  being  admitted,  Mrs.  Hamilton  fancied,  somewhat 
eagerly,  the  first  person  she  encountered  at  Lady  Helen's  was 
her  young  friend,  clad,  it  seemed,  for  walking,  with  traces  of 
anxiety  and  sorrow  clearly  written  on  her  countenance. 

"The  very  person  1  was  about  to  seek,"  she  exclaimed,  inf 
a  voice  of  intense  relief,  springing  down  the  stairs  to  reach  her 
friend.      "Dearest  Mrs   Hamilton,  mamma — Annie--"     The 
words  choked  her,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"Compose  yourself,  love,  I  know  all;  only  tell  me  how 
your  mother  bears  the  shock?"  whispered  Mrs.  Hamilton,  in- 
stantly penetrating  at  once  the  truth,  that  either  the  report 
had  reached  Lady  Helen,  or  she  had  received  the  intelligence 
direct  from  her  daughter;  and  anxious  to  escape  the  curious 
eyes  of  the  domestics  who  were  in  the  hall,  she  hastily  yet 
kindly  drew  the  weeping  Lilla  to  the  nearest  parlor,  and, 
closing  the  door,  succeeded  in  hearing  all  she  desired.  Lilla 
said,  her  mother,  only  an  hour  before,  had  received  a  letter 
from  Annie,  briefly  announcing  her  marriage,  and  informing 
her  they  intended  very  shortly  to  embark  for  the  Netherlands 
from  Leith,  thence  to  make  a  tour  in  Germany  and  Italy, 
which  would  prevent  their  returning  to  England  for  some  time, 
when  she  hoped  all  preient  irritation  at  her  conduct  would 
have  subsided;  that  he-  father's  severity  had  tended  to  this 
step.  Had  he  been  fc-nd.  and  like  other  fathers,  she  would 
have  sacrificed  her  o^  j  desires,  conscious  that  his  reason  for 
prohibiting  her  unio  *  with  Alphingham  was  good,  however  it 
might  be  secret  •  br.c  when,  from  her  childhood,  her  every  wish 
had  been  unreasonably  thwarted,  she  w&s  compelled  to  choose 
in  such  a  case  for  herself.  She  should  be  sorry  to  live  in  en- 
mity with  her  father,  but  even  if  she  did,  she  never  could 
regret  the  step  she  had  taken.  To  her  mother  she  wrote  as  if 
assured  of  her  forgiveness,  or  rather  her  cr  ntinued  favor ; 
forgiveness  she  did  not  seem  to  think  it  at  all  necessary  to 
ask,  sayir.g,  she  was  sure  her  kind  and  indulgent  mother 
would  n.  >\  regret  her  union  with  Lord  Alphingham,  when  she 
solemnly  declared  it  had  made  her  happier  than  she  had  ever 
been  bey  .re.  Such  Lilla  said  were  the  contents  of  her  letter ; 
but  thi  yarm-hearted  girl  could  not  refer  without  indignation 
to  (?i  tter  want  of  affection  which  breathed  throughout 


TBE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  247 

Her  mother,  Lilla  continued  to  say,  had  been  in  a  most  alarm- 
ing state  from  the  time  she  received  the  letter,  but,  she  fancied, 
occasioned  more  by  the  dread  of  what  her  father  would  say 
on  his  return,  than  from  Annie's  conduct. 

When  Mrs.  Hamilton  saw  Lady  Helen,  she  felt  that  Lilla 
was  right.  The  unhappy  mother  reproached  her  own  careless- 
ness, indolence,  and  Annie's  ingratitude,  but  it  was  evident 
the  dread  of  her  husband  was  uppermost  in  her  mind — a 
dread  which  made  her  so  extremely  ill,  from  a  succession  of 
violent  and  uncontrolled  hysterics,  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  did 
not  leave  her  the  whole  of  that  day;  nor  would  she  permit 
the  unhappy  father  to  enter  his  wife's  apartment  on  his 
return,  till  she  had  exacted  from  him  a  promise  to  forbear  all 
reproaches  towards  his  suffering  wife,  all  allusions  to  the 
past. 

With  the  stern  brevity  of  the  injured,  Grahame  addressed 
his  disobedient  child.  His  forgiveness  and  his  blessing  he 
sent,  though  he  said  she  had  asked  for  neither  ;  that  he  bore 
no  enmity  to  her,  he  wrote  ;  his  home  and  his  heart  were  ever 
open  to  receive  her.  should  she  again  require  the  protection 
of  the  one,  the  affection  of  the  other.  She  had  chosen  for  her- 
self; linked  her  fate  with  one  against  whom  many  tongues 
had  spoken,  and  he  could  only  pray  that  her  present  happiness 
might  never  change.  Lord  Alphingham  he  did  not  name. 
Lady  Helen's  letter  was  a  curious  mixture  of  reproach  and 
affection,  complaint  and  congratulation ;  and  Annie  might 
have  found  it  difficult  to  discover  in  what  manner  she  was 
affected  towards  the  Viscount,  or  with  regard  to  the  elope- 
ment i  self.  Perhaps  of  all  the  letters  she  received  from 
home,  Lilla's  was  the  most  irritating  to  her,  for  it  was  written 
in  all  the  bitter  indignation,  the  unchecked  reproaches  of  a 
young  and  ardent  spirit,  in  whose  eyes  the  heartlessuess  of  her 
letter  was  inexcusable,  and  she  wrote  as  she  thought.  Annie, 
as  might  have  been  expected,  deigned  her  no  reply.  A  few 
languidly-written  letters  her  mother  received  from  her  during 
her  tour;  but  the  chief  of  her  correspondence  was  reserved  for 
Miss  Malison  and  the  lady  who  had  so  ably  assisted  their  se- 
cret plans.  The  friendly  influence  of  Mr.  Hamilton  succeeded, 
after  a  few  days,  in  restoring  his  friend  to  comparative  out- 
ward composure,  although  the  wound  within,  he  too  sadly  felt, 
was  beyond  his  power  to  heal. 

A  few  days  passed  in  peace.  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  her 
family  were  anticipating  with  pleasure  the  quiet  happiness  of 


248  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Oakwood,  und  the  event  then  to  take  place.  Scarcely  a  week 
intervened  before  their  departure,  when  they  were  one  after- 
noon startled  by  the  appearance  of  Grahame,  whose  counte- 
nance bore  the  pallid  hue  of  death,  and  every  action  denoted 
the  most  fearful  agitation.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  Caroline, 
and  St.  Eval,  were  alone  present,  and  they  gazed  on  him  in 
unfeigned  alarm. 

"  Hamilton,  I  start  for  Brussels  to-night,"  was  his  saluta- 
tion, as  he  entered. 

"Brussels!"  repeated  Mr.  Hamilton.  "Grahame,  you  are 
beside  yourself.  What  affairs  can  call  you  to  Brussels  so  sud- 
denly?" 

';  Affairs — business ;  ay,  of  such  weight,  I  cannot  rest  till 
they  are  attended  to.  Hamilton,  you  are  astonished ;  you 
think  me  mad;  oh,  would  to  God  I  were!"  and  striking  hia 
forehead  with  his  clenched  hand,  he  paced  the  room  in  agony. 

Ere  his  friend  could  approach  or  address  him,  he  suddenly 
paused  before  Caroline,  who  was  watching  him  in  alarm  and 
commiseration,  and  grasping  her  arm,  with  a  pressure  that 
pained  her,  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  blanched  her  cheek  with 
horror — 

"  Hamilton,  look  on  this  girl,  and,  as  you  love  me,  answer 
me.  Could  you  be  a  Roman  father,  did  you  see  her  dishonor- 
ed— the  victim,  the  wilful  victim  of  a  base,  a  treacherous,  mis- 
erable villain  ? — say,  could  you  wash  away  the  blackening  stain 
with  blood — with  her  blood — or  his,  or  both  1  Speak  to  me— 
counsel  me.  My  child,  r»iy  child  ! "  he  groaned  aloud. 

"  Grahame.  you  are  ill ;  my  dear  friend,  you  know  not  what 
you  say,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hamilton,  terrified  both  at  his  wild- 
ness  and  his  words.  "  Come  with  me  till  this  strange  mood 
lias  passed;  I  entreat  it  as  a  favor — come." 

"  Passed — till  this  mood  has  passed  !  Hamilton,  it  will 
never  pass  till  the  grave  has  closed  over  Annie  and  myself. 
Oh,  Hamilton,  my  friend,  I  had  reconciled  myself  to  this  mar- 
riage; taught  myself  to  believe  that,  as  his  wife,  she  might  be 
happy;  and — oh  God!  can  I  say  the  words? — she  is  not  his 
wife — he  is  already  married."  His  trembling  limbs  refused 
support,  and  he  sunk,  overcome  by  his  emotion,  on  a  chair. 
Without  a  minute's  pause,  a  moment's  hesitation,  and  ere  her 
father  could  find  words  to  reply.  Caroline  sprang  forward,  arid 
kneeling  beside  the  wretched  father,  she  seized  his  hand — 

"  Be  calm,  be  comforted,  dearest  Mr.  Grahame.'  she  ex- 
claimed, in  a  voice  that  caused  him  to  gaze  at  her  with  aston- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  2*% 

ishtnent.  "  It  is  a  mistaken  tale  you  have  heard  ;  a  cruel  false- 
hood, to  disturb  your  peace.  Lord  Alphingham  was  married, 
but  Annie  is  now  his  lawful,  wedded  wife ;  the  partner  of  his 
youth,  the  devoted  woman  whom  for  eight  years  he  deserted, 
is  no  more.  She  died  the  day  preceding  that  which  united 
Lord  Alphingham  to  your  child.  I  speak  truth,  Mr.  Grahame ; 
solemnly,  sacredly,  I  affirm  it.  Percy  will  tell  yon  more ;  I 
was  pledged  to  secrecy.  On  her  death-bed  she  demanded  a 
solemn  promise  from  all  who  knew  her  tale,  never  to  divulge 
it.  lest  it  should  prove  to  the  discredit  of  her  cruel  husband, 
whom  her  last  accents  blessed.  I  promised  Percy  it  should  be 
sacred,  unless  an  emergency  demanded  it.  Be  comforted,  Mr. 
Grahame ;  indeed,  I  speak  the  truth.  Lord  Alphingham  was 
free,  restrained  by  no  tie,  when  he  was  united  to  youi  child." 
Rapidly,  hurriedly,  she  had  spoken,  for  she  trembled  at  the 
wild  gaze  Grahame  had  fixed  upon  her.  Caroline's  voice  rang 
clear  and  distinct  upon  his  ear,  and  every  word  brought  com- 
fort, still  he  spoke  not ;  but  when  she  ceased,  when  slowly, 
more  impressively  her  last  words  were  spoken,  he  uttered  a 
faint  cry,  and  folding  her  slight  form  convulsively  to  his  heart, 
sobbed  like  an  infant  on  her  shoulder.  Thoughts  unutterable 
thronged  the  minds  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  as  they  too  list- 
ened with  fascinated  eagerness  to  Caroline's  words ;  thoughts, 
not  only  of  the  present,  but  the  past,  rushed  quickly  to  their 
minds.  A  year  previously  Lord  Alphingham's  wife  still  lived; 
though  he,  villain  as  he  was,  had  heeded  not  the  sacred  tie. 
Well  could  they  enter  into  the  blessed  relief  her  words  had 
brought  to  the  distracted  father.  Mr.  Hamilton  permitted 
some  minutes  to  elapse  in  silence,  and  then,  gently  withdraw- 
ing Caroline  from  Grahame's  still  convulsive  hold,  said  a  few 
words,  in  a  voice  which,  though  low,  expressed  that  kindly 
sympathy  whicti  seldom  fails  to  reach  the  inmost  soul;  and 
finally  succeeded  in  passing  his  arm  through  that  of  his  friend, 
and  leading  him  to  an  adjoining  room,  where,  after  a  time, 
Grahame  conquered  his  agitation  sufficiently  to  give  a  con- 
nected account  of  the  means  through  which  he  had  learned  the 
information  which  had  so  distracted  him.  Caroline's  words 
and  the  influence  of  his  friend  restored  him  to  comparative 
composure ;  but  all  was  not  at  peace  within  until  Percy  had 
obeyed  the  summons  of  his  father,  and  the  information  of  his 
sister  was  confirmed  in  every  point  by  him.  He  related  the 
tale  of  Mrs.  Amesfort,  with  which  our  readers  are  already 
well  acquainted,  with  the  addition  of  her  death,  of  which  the 
11' 


250  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

letter  he  received  a  few  days  previous  had  informed  him, 
Many  affecting  interviews  he  had  had  with  her.  in  which  she 
spoke -of  her  husband,  her  mother,  her  child,  so  fondly,  that 
the  tears  often  started  to  the  eyes  of  Percy,  though  her  own 
were  dry.  In  parting  from  him,  she  had  again  implored  him 
not  to  divulge  her  secret,  unless  the  interest  of  her  child  de- 
manded it,  or  he  saw  urgent  occasion. 

'•Let  not  the  breath  of  calumny  sully  the  name  of  my 
child,"  she  said,  grasping  his  hand  with  a  painful  effort.  "  Let 
her  not  be  looked  on  as  a  child  of  shame,  when  her  birth  is  as 
pure  and  noble  as  any  in  the  land.  If  her  birth  be  question 
ed,  let  the  whole  world  know  she  is  the  daughter  of  Lord  Al- 
phingham.  In  my  mother's  care  is  the  certificate  of  my  mar 
riage,  also  of  the  christening  of  my  Agnes.  But  if  nothing  bo 
demanded,  if  her  lot  be  happy,  it  is  better  both  for  father  and 
daughter  that  they  remain  unknown  to  each  other." 

Percy  had  made  the  solemn  promise  she  demanded,  but 
the  remembrance  of  her  pale  features,  her  drooping  form,  had 
haunted  him  on  his  return  home,  and  caused  that  deep  gloom 
his  family  had  remarked.  It  was  more  than  a  week  after  Mrs. 
Amesfort:s  death,  before  her  afflicted  mother  could  write  the 
tidings  to  the  young  man,  who,  on  hearing  of  Annie's  conduct, 
had  instantly  and  actively  set  about  obtaining  the  exact  date 
of  the  unfortunate  lady's  death,  and  also  that  of  the  Viscount's 
nasty  marriage  in  Scotland.  The  result  was  most  satisfacto- 
ry ;  rather  more  than  a  week  had  elapsed  between  the  two 
events,  and  his  marriage  with  Annie  was,  consequently,  sa- 
cred and  binding.  Percy  also  said,  Mrs.  Morley  had  men- 
tioned her  intention  of  instantly  returning  to  Ireland  with  the 
little  Agnes,  from  whom  she  fervently  prayed  she  might  never 
DC  compelled  to  part. 

Relieved,  and  truly  thankful,  Grahame  consulted  with  his 
friends  on  the  best  plan  to  pursue  to  silence  the  rumors  which, 
having  overheard  in  a  public  coffee-house,  would,  he  had  no 
doubt,  be  immediately  circulated  over  the  town.  Mrs.  Mor- 
ley said,  she  had  written  to  inform  Lord  Alphingham  of  the 
death  of  his  broken-hearted  wife,  inclosing  one  from  the  ill- 
fated  Agnes  herself.  He  was,  therefore,  perfectly  aware  rf  the 
validity  of  the  second  marriage,  for  Percy  had  inquired  and 
found  the  letter  had  been  forwarded ;  there  was  no  need  of 
communication  with  him  on  that  point.  Grahame's  first  care 
was  to  travel  to  Scotland,  and  obtain  the  registry  of  their  mar- 
riage ;  his  next,  to  proceed  to  Brussels,  with  Mr.  Hamilton, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  251 

and  coolly  and  decisively  inform  Lord  Alphingham  that,  un- 
less the  ceremony  was  publicly  solemnized  a  second  time,  in 
his  presence,  and  before  proper  witnesses,  other  proceedings 
would  be  entered  upon  against  him.  Astonished  and  some- 
what alarmed  as  Lord  and  Lady  Alphingham  were  at  his  un- 
expected appearance,  the  former  had  too  many  sins  on  his  con- 
science to  submit  to  a  public  expose,  which  he  might  justly 
fear  was  intended  in  this  threat,  and,  with  great  apparent  wil- 
lingness, he  consented.  The  ceremony  was  again  performed  ; 
Grahame  possessed  himself  of  the  certificate,  and  left  Brussels, 
with  the  half-formed  resolution  that,  while  Lord  Alphingham 
lived,  he  would  never  see  his  child  again.  The  death  of  the- 
Right  Honorable  Viscountess  Alphingham,  and  the  subse- 
quent marriage  in  Scotland  of  the  liight  Honorable  Lord  Vis- 
count Alphingham  with  Miss  Grahame,  appeared  in  all  the 
newspapers.  The  splendor  of  the  second  solemnization  of  their 
nuptials  in  Brussels  was  the  next  theme  of  wonder  and  gossip, 
and  by  the  time  that  subject  was  exhausted,  London  had  be- 
come deserted,  and  Lord  and  Lady  Alphingham  might  proba- 
bly have  returned  to  the  metropolis  without  question  or  re- 
mark ;  but  such  was  not  Lord  Alphingham's  intention.  He 
feared  that  probably  were  his  history  publicly  known  he  might 
be  shunned  for  the  deceit  he  had  displayed;  and  he  easily  ob- 
tained Annie's  glad  consent  to  fix  their  residence  for  a  few 
years  in  Paris.  Irritated  as  in  all  probability  he  was,  when 
he  found  himself  again  fettered,  yet  he  so  ably  concealed  this 
irritation,  that  his  wife  suspected  it  not,  and  for  a  time  she 
was  happy. 

As  Lord  and  Lady  Alphingham  are  no  longer  concerned 
in  our  tale,  having  nothing  more  in  common  with  those  iu 
whom,  we  trust,  our  readers  are  much  more  interested,  we  may 
h«re  formally  dismiss  them  in  a  few  words.  They  lived,  but 
if  true  happiness  dwells  only  with  the  virtuous  and  good,  with 
the  upright  and  the  noble,  it  gilded  not  their  lot ;  but  if  those 
who  are  well  acquainted  with  the  morality  of  the  higher  classes 
of  the  French  capital  can  pronounce  that  it  dwells  there,  then, 
indeed,  might  they  be  said  to  possess  it,  for  such  was  their 
lives.  They  returned  not  again  to  England,  but  lived  in 
France  and  Italy,  alternately.  Alphingham,  callous  to  every 
better  and  softer  feeling,  might  have  been  happy,  but  not  such 
was  the  fate  of  Annie.  Bitterly,  ere  she  died,  did  she  regret 
her  folly  and  disobedience  ;  remorse  was  sometimes  busy  with- 
in, though  no  actual  guilt  dimmed  her  career :  she  drowned 


252  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

the  voice  of  conscience  in  the  vortex  of  frivolity  and  fashion. 
But  the  love  she  bore  for  Alphingham  was  the  instrument  oi 
retribution  :  her  husband  neglected,  despised,  and  frequently 
deserted  her.  Let  no  woman  unite  herself  with  sin,  in  the  vain 
hope  of  transforming  it  to  virtue.  Such  thoughts  had  not.  in- 
deed, been  Annie's,  when  wilfully  she  sought  her  fate.  She 
knew  not  the  man  she  had  chosen  for  her  husband  ;  she  disre- 
garded the  warnings  she  had  heard.  Fatal  delusion  !  she 
found,  too  late,  the  fate  her  will  had  woven  was  formed  of 
knotty  threads,  the  path  that  she  had  sought  beset  with 
thorns,  from  which  she  could  not  break.  No  children  blessed 
her  lot.  and  it  was  better  thus — for  they  would  have  found  but 
little  happiness.  The  fate  of  Lord  Alphingham's  "hild.  the 
little  Agnes,  was  truly  happy  in  her  own  innocence ;  she  lived 
on  for  many  years  in  ignorance  of  her  real  rank  and  the  title 
of  her  father,  under  the  careful  guidance  of  that  relative  to 
whom  her  mother's  last  words  had  tenderly  consigned  her. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  remained  but  little  longer  in  town  ; 
Caroline's  trousseau  was  quite  completed,  for  but  very  few 
weeks  now  intervened  ere  her  marriage.  Lady  Gertrude  had 
devoted  herself  to  the  young  Earl,  and  remained  with  him 
superintending  the  improvements  and  embellishments  of  his 
beautiful  estate,  Castle  Terryn,  in  .the  vicinity  of  the  Tamar, 
on  the  Cornwall  side,  which  was  being  prepared  with  the 
greatest  taste  and  splendor.  Lady  Gertrude  was  to  remain 
with  her  brother  till  a  week  previous  to  the  wedding,  when  she 
joined  her  family  at  Oakwood,  where  they  had  been  staying 
since  their  departure  from  London,  at  the  earnest  persuasions 
of  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton.  Seldom  had  the  banks  of  the 
placid  Dart  been  so  gay  as  they  were  on  this  occasion  ;  the 
beautiful  villas  scattered  around  were  all  taken  by  the  friends 
of  the  parties  about  to  be  so  nearly  connected.  Rejoicings 
were  not  only  confined  to  the  higher  class ;  the  poor,  for  many 
miles  round,  hailed  the  expected  marriage  of  Miss  Hamilton 
as  an  occasion  of  peculiar  and  individual  felicity.  Blessings 
ou  her  lot,  prayers  for  her  welfare,  that  Lord  St.  Eval  might 
prove  himself  worthy  of  her,  were  murmured  in  many  a  rustic 
cot,  and  every  one  was  employed  in  earnest  thought  as  to  the 
best,  the  most  respectful  mode  of  testifying  their  humble  sym- 
pathy in  the  happiness  of  their  benefactors.  Such  were  the 
feelings  with  which  high  and  low  regarded  the  prosperity  ol 
the  good. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  252 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Wno  amongst  this  merry  party  will  become  sufficiently  sober 
to  assist  me  in  a  work  of  charity?"  was  Mrs.  Hamilton's 
address,  one  afternoon,  as  she  entered  her  daughter's  room, 
where  Emmeline,  her  young  friends.  Lady  Florence  and  Lady 
Emily  Lyle,  and  even  the  usually  quiet  Ellen,  were  employing 
themselves  in  drawing,  embroidery,  and  such  light  amusements 
as  diligently  as  the  merry  speech,  the  harmless  joke,  and  the 
joyous  laugh  of  truly  innocent  enjoyment  would  permit. 

"  A  case  of  extreme  distress  has  come  before  me,"  she 
continued,  "for  which  alms  and  other  relief  will  not  be 
sufficient ;  clothing  is  principally  required.  Can  any  of  you 
consent  to  put  aside  these  pretty  things  for  a  few  days,  merely 
for  the  sake  of  obliging  me  and  doing  good  ?  I  have  set  °very 
hand  to  work,  and  now  for  further  assistanea  have  come  to 
you.  To  whom  shall  I  appeal?" 

';  To  me — to  me — to  me  !"  every  voice  exclaimed  spon- 
taneously, and  they  eagerly  crowded  round  her  to  know  what 
she  required,  what  case  of  distress  had  occurred,  for  whom 
they  were  to  work. 

Gratified  and  pleased  at  their  eagerness,  Mrs.  Hamilton 
smilingly  imparted  all  they  wished  to  know.  The  simple  tale 
drew  from  the  artless  group  many  exclamations  of  pity,  com- 
bined with  tlie  earnest  desire  to  relieve  in  whatever  way  their 
kind  friend  would  dictate,  and  their  task  was  received  by  all 
with  every  demonstration  of  pleasure. 

"  You,  too.  Ellen/'  said  Mrs  Hamilton,  smiling;  "  I  thought 
you  once  said  you  had  no  time  for  work." 

"  Not  for  ornamental  work,  aunt ;  but  I  hope  you  have 
never  asked  in  vais  for  my  assistance  in  such  a  case  as  this," 
answered  Ellen,  blushing  as  she  spoke. 

'•  No,  love  :  my  words  did  you  injustice.  But  you  appear  to 
have  found  time  for  ornamental  work  also,  if  this  very  pretty 
wreath  be  yours,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  bending  over  her 
niece's  frame,  and  praising  the  delicacy  of  her  flowers. 

'•  Oh.  I  have  time  for  any  and  every  thing  now,"  exclaimed 
Ellen,  in  a  tone  of  animation,  so  very  unusual,  that  not  only 
her  aunt  but  her  young  companions  looked  at  her  with  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Ellen,  you  are  becoming  more  and  more  incomprehensi- 
ble,1 said  Emmeline,  laughing.  "  If  Edward  do  not  come 


254  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

home  soon,  as  I  suspect  this  extraordinary  mood  is  occasioned 
by  the  anticipation  of  his  arrival,  I  am  afraid  your  spirits  will 
carry  you  half  way  over  the  Channel  to  meet  him.  Mamma, 
take  my  advice,  and  keep  a  strict  watch  over  the  persou  of 
your  niece." 

"  You  know,  Ellen,  you  are  as  full  of  fun  and  mischief  as 
[  am,  quiet  and  demure  as  we  once  thought  you,"  said  Lady 
Emily. 

"Is  she?  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  playfully. 
'  Do  not  look  so  very  much  ashamed  of  your  mirth,  my  dear 
Ellen,  and  bend  over  your  work  as  if  you  had  been  guilty  of 
some  extraordinary  misdemeanor.  You  know  how  pleased  I 
always  am  to  see  you  happy,  Ellen,"  she  added,  in  a  lower 
voice,  as  she  laid  her  hand  sportively  on  her  niece's  head,  which 
was  bent  down  to  conceal  the  confusion  Emmeline's  words  had 
called  forth. 

Some  little  time  longer  Mrs.  Hamilton  remained  with  the 
young  party,  entering  with  her  usual  kindness  into  all  their 
pleasures  and  pursuits,  and  left  them  perhaps  even  happier 
than  she  had  found  them. 

Ellen's  change  of  manner  had  been  noticed  by  the  whole 
party  assembled  at  Oakwood ;  and  by  most  of  them  attributed 
to  the  anticipation  of  the  long-absent  Edward's  return.  That 
indefinable  manner  which  had  formerly  pervaded  her  whole 
conduct  had  disappeared.  She  no  longer  seemed  to  have 
something  weighing  on  her  mind,  which  Mrs.  Hamilton  some- 
times fancied  to  have  been  the  case.  Cheerful,  animated,  at 
times  even  joyous,  she  appeared  a  happier  being  than  she  had 
ever  been  before ;  and  sincerely  her  aunt  and  uncle,  who  really 
loved  her  as  their  child,  rejoiced  in  the  change,  though  they 
knew  not,  guessed  not  the  real  cause.  Ingratiating  herself 
with  all,  even  the  stern  Duchess  of  Rothbury,  who,  with  her 
now  only  unmarried  daughter,  Lady  Lucy,  had  accepted  Mrs. 
Hamilton's  pressing  invitation  to  Oakwood,  relaxed  in  her 
manner  towards  her;  and  Sir  George  Wilmot,  also  a  resi- 
dent guest,  declared  that  if  Edward  were  not  proud  of  his 
bister  on  his  return,  he  would  do  all  in  his  power  to  hinder  hia 
promotion. 

Mr.  Hamilton  and  his  family  had  employed  the  greater 
part  of  a  very  beautiful  August  in  conducting  their  guests  to 
all  the  most  picturesque  and  favorite  spots  in  the  vicinity  of 
Oakwood.  About  a  week  after  the  circumstance  we  have  nar- 
rated, St.  Eval  and  Lady  Gertrude  joined  them  in  the  morning 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  255 

of  a  proposed  excursion,  which  included  the  whole  party,  with 
the  exception  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Ellen.  The  Earl  and  his 
sister  had  been  instantly  enlisted  as  a  most  agreeable  rein- 
forcement ;  nor  was  the  young  Earl  very  sorry  for  an  excuse 
to  spend  the  whole  day  in  enjoying  the  beauties  of  Nature 
tete-a-tete  with  his  betrothed,  who,  since  the  candid  explanation 
of  her  agitation  on  first  hearing  of  Annie's  elopement,  for 
which  her  knowledge  of  Lord  Alphingham's  former  marriage 
had  well  accounted,  had  become  if  possible  dearer  than  ever ; 
and  this  excursion  was  indeed  one  of  perfect  enjoyment  to 
both. 

Ellen,  for  some  unaccountable  reason  which  her  young 
friends  could  neither  penetrate  nor  conceive,  refused  *o  accom- 
pany them,  declaring  that  most  important  business  kept  her  at 
home. 

"  Edward  will  not  come  to-day,  so  do  not  expect  him,"  had 
been  Emmeline's  parting  words. 

The  ruralizing  party  were  to  dine  amid  the  ruins  of  Berry 
Pomeroy,  and  were  not  expected  home  till  dusk,  to  a  sub- 
stantial tea. 

It  might  have  been  seven  in  the  evening  that  Ellen  quietly 
entered  the  library,  where  her  aunt  was  engaged  in  writing, 
and  stood  by  her  side  in  silence,  as  if  fearful  of  interrupting 
by  addressing  her. 

••  Wait  a  few  minutes,  my  love,  and  I  shall  be  ready  to 
attend  to  you.  if  you  require  my  assistance  in  the  arrangement 
of  your  work,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  said,  alluding  to  the  parcel  of 
baby-linen  she  perceived  in  her  niece's  hand.  Ellen  smiled 
and  obeyed.  In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Hamilton  laid  aside 
her  writing,  and  looked  up,  as  if  expecting  her  niece  would 
speak. 

"  Well.  Ellen,  what  grand  difficulty  can  you  not  over- 
come?1' 

"  None,  my  dear  aunt.  My  task  is  done ;  I  only  want 
your  approval/'  replied  Ellen. 

"  Done  !"  repeated  her  aunt,  in  an  accent  of  astonishment. 
"  My  dear  Ellen,  it  is  impossible  ;  I  only  gave  it  you  a  week 
ago.  You  must  have  worked  all  night  to  finish  it." 

':  Indeed   I  have  not,"  replied  Ellen,  quickly  yet  earnestly. 

':  Then  I  certainly  must  examine  every  little  article."  said 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  laughing,  "  or  I  shall  decidedly  fancy  this 
extreme  rapidity  cannot  have  been  productive  of  neatness, 
which  last  I  rather  prefer  to  the  first." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Ellen  submitted  her  work  to  her  scrutiny,  without  reply, 
and  remained  kneeling  on  a  stool  at  her  aunt's  feet,  without 
any  apprehension  as  to  the  sentence  that  would  be  pronoun- 
ced. 

<:  Really,  Ellen,  I  shall  incline  to  Emmeline's  opinion,  and 
believe  some  magic  is  at  work  within  you,"  was  Mrs.  Ilamil 
ton's  observation,  as  she  folded  up  the  tiny  suit  with  very 
evident  marks  of  satisfaction.  "  How  you  have  acquired  the 
power  of  working  thus  neatly  and  rapidly,  when  I  have 
scarcely  ever  seen  a  needle  in  ^our  hand,  I  eannet  compre- 
hend. I  will  appoint  you  my  seamstress-general,  in  addition 
to  bestowing  my  really  sincere  thanks  for  the  assistance  you 
have  afforded  me." 

Ellen  pressed  her  aunt's  hand  to  her  lips  in  silence,  for  ar 
enotion  Mrs.  Hamilton  beheld,  but  could  not  understand 
choked  her  voice. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  love?  has  any  thing  occurred  to  an 
noy  you  to-day  ?  You  look  paler  and  more  sad  than  usual ; 
tell  me  what  it  is." 

';  Do  you  remember  what — what  chanced — have  you  forgot- 
ten the  event  that  took  place  this  very  day,  this  very  hour, 
in  this  very  room,  three  years  ago?"  demanded  Ellen,  almost 
inaudibly,  and  her  cheek  blanched  to  the  color  of  her  robe 
as  she  spoke. 

"  Why  recall  the  painful  past  at  such  a  moment,  my  sweet 
girl?  has  it  not  been  redeemed  by  three  years  of  undeviating 
rectitude  and  virtue?  I  had  hoped  the  recollection  had  ere 
this  long  ceased  to  disturb  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  with 
much  feeling,  as  she  pressed  her  lips  to  her  niece's  brow. 

"  It  never  can,  it  never  will,  unless — unless — "  Strong 
and  almost  fearful  emotion  prevented  all  she  had  wished  to 
say.  and  throwing  into  Mrs.  Hamilton's  lap  a  small  calf-skin 
pocket-book,  she  flung  her  arms  round  her  neck,  and  burying 
her  face  in  her  bosom,  murmured,  in  a  voice  choked  with  sobs, 
"  The  amount  of  all  I  took  is  there — all — all.  Oh,  take  it, 
and  let  me  thus  feel  it  as  a  debt  which  I  have  paid." 

"Ellen,  my  own  Ellen,  be  composed."  entreated  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  alarmed  by  the  extreme  agitation  she  beheld. 
"  Tell  me,  love,  what  are  the  contents  of  this  pocket-book  ? 
why  do  you  entreat  me  so  earnestly  to  take  it  ?" 

Struggling  violently  with  herself,  Ellen  tore  open  the  littla 
book,  and  placed  in  her  aunt's  hand  bank  notes  to  the  amount 
of  those  which  had  once  been  so  fatal  a  temptation. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  U51 

"  They  are  mine — all  mine.  I  have  gained  them  honestly; 
indeed,  indeed  I  have;  I  have  worked  for  them.  It  was  to 
gain  time  for  this  I  refused  to  go  out  with  you  last  winter. 
I  had  hoped  my  long,  long  task  would  have  been  done  before, 
but  it  was  not.  Oh,  I  thought  I  should  never,  never  gain  the 
whole  amount,  but  I  have  now ;  and,  oh,  tell  me  I  have  in  part 
redeemed  my  sin ;  tell  me  I  am  more  worthy  of  your  love, 
your  kindness ;  tell  me  I  am  again  indeed  your  own  happy 
Ellen."  • 

She  would  have  said  more,  but  no  words  came  at  her  com' 
mand,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  remained  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
in  surprise  and  admiration. 

"  My  Ellen,  my  own  much-loved  Ellen  !"  she  exclaimed  at 
length,  and  tears  of  unfeigned  emotion  mingled  with  the  re- 
peated kisses  she  imprinted  on  her  niece's  cheek,  "  this  moment 
has  indeed  repaid  me  for  all.  Little  did  I  imagine  in  what 
manner  you  were  employed,  the  nature  of  your  tedious  task. 
How  could  you  contrive  to  keep  it  thus  secret  from  me?  what 
time  could  you  find  to  work  thus  laboriously,  when  not  one 
study  or  employment  have  I  seen  neglected?" 

"  I  thought  at  first  I  never  should  succeed,"  replied  Ellen, 
her  strong  emotion  greatly  calmed;  "for  while  Miss  Harcourt 
remained  with  us,  I  had  only  two  hours  before  prayers  in  the 
morning,  and  sometimes  I  have  ventured  to  sit  up  an  hour  or 
two  later  at  night ;  but  not  often,  for  I  feared  you  would  dis- 
cover me,  and  be  displeased,  for  I  could  not,  dared  not  tell 
you  in  what  I  was  employed.  The  winter  before  last  I  earned 
so  much  from  embroidery  and  finer  kinds  of  work,  that  I 
thought  I  should  have  obtained  the  whole  a  year  ago;  but  I 
was  disappointed,  for  here  I  could  only  do  plain  work,  at  which 
I  earned  but  little,  for  I  could  not  do  it  so  quickly.  I  had 
hoped  there  would  have  been  no  occasion  to  refuse  your  wish, 
that  I  should  accompany  you  and  Emmeline,  but  I  found  the 
whole  amount  was  still  far  from  complete,  and  I  was  compelled 
to  act  as  I  did." 

'•  And  is  it  possible,  my  Ellen,  you  have  intrusted  your 
secret  to  no  one :  have  demanded  no  sympathy,  no  encourage- 
ment in  this  long  and  painful  task?" 

"  I  could  not  have  accomplished  nor  did  I  commence  it 
without  the  kind  assistance  and  advice  of  Ellis.  My  deai 
aunt,  I  knew,  reposed  great  confidence  in  her,  and  I  thought 
if  she  did  net  disapprove  of  my  plan.  I  should  not  be  acting  so 
very  independently,  and  that  with  her  assistance  my  secret 


258  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

would  not  be  so  difficult  to  keep ;  she  procured  me  employ- 
ment.  My  name  nor  my  reasons  for  seeking  it  were  nevef 
known  to  those  for  whom  I  worked." 

"  And  could  she  approve  of  a  task  such  as  this,  my  Ellen*? 
Could  she  counsel  such  painful  self-denial  and  tedious  labor?" 

k-  She  did  all  she  could  to  dissuade,  and  at  first  positively 
refused  to  assist  rne ;  but  at  last  yielded  to  my  Entreaties,  for 
she  saw  I  never  should  be  happy  till  I  could  look  on  the  past 
more  as  a  debt  than — than — "  Sh*.  paused,  then  added — 
"  My  own  spirit  rebelled  enough ;  that  was  far  more  difficult  to 
overcome  than  other  dissuasions." 

u  And  what  strong  impulse  could  have  urged  you  to  thh 
course  of  self-denial,  my  sweet  girl?  I  know  not  yet  whether  I 
shall  not  scold  you  for  this  almost  needless  infliction  of  pain, 
and  for  the  deception  it  involves  towards  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton, with  reproachful  tenderness. 

"  Forgive  me,  oh,  forgive  me  that !"  exclaimed  Ellen,  clasp- 
ing the  hand  she  held.  '•  I  have  often  and  often  felt  I  was  de- 
ceiving you ;  failing  in  that  confidence  I  had  promised  you 
should  never  again  have  to  demand ;  but  I  dared  not  tell  you, 
for  I  knew  you  would  have  prohibited  the  continuance  of  my 
task." 

"I  should  indeed,  my  Ellen;  and  tell  me  why  you  have 
done  this.  Was  it  indeed  because  you  imagined  nothing  else 
could  atone  for  the  past?" 

u  Because  I  felt — I  knew,  though  I  was  restored  to  your 
favor,  your  confidence,  my  conscience  was  not  at  peace,  because 
I  had  read,  '  If  the  wicked  restore  the  pledge,  give  again  that 
which  he  had  robbed,  walk  in  tlue  statutes  of  life  without  com- 
mitting iniquity,  he  shall  surely  live,  he  shall  not  die  ;'  and  I 
felt,  however  I  might  endeavor  to  be  virtuous  and  good,  till  I 
had  given  again  that  which  I  had  robbed,  I  dared  not  implore 
the  mercy  of  my  God." 

It  is  impossible  to  do  justice  by  mere  description  to  the 
plaintive  eloquence,  to  the  mournfully  expressive  voice  with 
which  these  simple  words  were  said,  betraying  at  once  those 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  had  been  so  long  concealed  in  El- 
len's meek  and  youthful  heart,  the  hidden  spring  from  which 
her  every  action  had  emanated  ;  Mrs.  Hamilton  felt  its  power, 
the  sentiment  was  too  exalted,  too  holy  for  human  praise. 
She  folded  her  niece  to  her  bosom. 

''May  the  Almighty  searcher  of  hearts  accept  this  sacrifice 
tod  bless  you,  my  dear  child.  Secretly,  unostentatiously,  it 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  259 

has  been  done.     Pure  must  have  been  the  thoughts  which 
•were  yours  when  thus  employed,  when  such  was  their  origin, 
and  we  may  hope,  indeed,  they  have  been  accepted.     Had  no 
self-denial  attended  the  payment  of  your  debt,  had  you  merely 
t  entreated  your  uncle  to  repay  himself  from  the  fortune  you 
,;  possess,  I  would  not  have  accepted  it ;  such  a  payment  would 
neither  have  been  acceptable  to  me,  nor  to  Him  whom.  I  firmlj 
'believe,  my  Ellen  sought  more  to  please.     But  when  everj 
'.action  the  last  few  years  has  proved  to  me,  the  words  you  re- 
•peated  have  indeed  been  the  foundation  of  this  self-conquest,  I 
cannot  but  humbly,  trustingly,  think  it  will  be  in  accepted 
offering  on  high.     Nor  will  I  refuse  to  comply  with  your  re- 
quest, my  dearest  Ellen  ;  I  will  receive  that  which  you  have  so 
perseveringly  and  so  painfully  earned;  it  shall  be  employed  in 
purchasing  prayers  for  us  all,  from  those  whom  it  may  relieve. 
Let  not  the  recollection  of  the  past  again  disturb  you,   my 
sweet  child.      Solicitude  and   pain   you  indeed   once  caused 
me.  but  this   moment  has  redeemed  it  all.       Continue  thus 
undeviatingly  to   follow    the  blessed  path   you  have  chosen, 
and  our  Ellen  is  and  ever  will  be  deserving  of  all  the  love 
which  those  to  whom  she  is  so  dear  can  lavish  upon  her." 

For  a  few  minutes  there  was  silence,  for  the  solemnity  with 
which  she  spoke  had  touched  a  responding  chord ;  but  the 
thoughts  of  the  orphan  arose  to  heaven,  silently  petitioning  for 
grace  to  continue  in  that  blessed  path  of  which  her  aunt  had 
spoken,  in  thankfulness  for  having  been  permitted  to  conclude 
her  painful  task,  and  t  hip  obtain  the  approbation  of  her  more 
than  mother,  the  relative  she  so  revered  and  loved. 

"  And  this,  then,  was  the  long  task  which  your  numerous 
avocations  during  the  day  prevented  your  completing,  and 
you  therefore  took  the  time  from  that  allotted  to  recreation 
and  amusement — this,  which  so  strongly  emboldened  my  little 
Ellen,  that  even  my  coldness  had  no  effect,  except  to  make  her 
miserable.  What  do  you  not  deserve  for  thus  deceiving  me  ? 
I  do  not  think  I  know  any  punishment  sufficiently  severe." 
Mrs.  Hamilton  had  recalled  all  her  playfulness,  for  she 
wished  to  banish  every  trace  of  sadness  and  emotion  from  the 
countenance  of  her  niece.  Ellen  raised  her  iiead  to  answer  her 
in  her  own  playful  tone,  when  they  were  both  startled  by  the 
declining  light  of  day  being  suddenly  obscured,  as  if  by  the 
shadow  of  a  figure  standing  by  the  open  window  near  them. 
It  was.  however,  so  dark,  that  the  outlines  of  the  intruder  were 
alone  visible,  and  they  would  have  been  unrecognized  by  any, 
save  by  the  eye  of  affection. 


260  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Ellen  sprung  suddenly  to  her  feet.  "  Edward  !"  burst 
gladly  from  her  lips,  and  in  another  second  a  fine,  manly 
youth  had  darted  through  the  open  casement,  and  the  long- 
parted  brother  and  sister  were  in  each  other's  arms.  For  a 
minute  only  Ellen  was  pressed  in  his  embracfc,  and  then 
releasing  her,  he  turned  towards  his  aunt,  and  even  as  a 
devoted  mother,  a  fond  and  dutiful  son,  they  met,  for  such 
had  they  been  in  the  long  years  of  separation.  Frequently 
had  that  high  spirited  boy  been  tempted  to  error  and  to 
sin,  but  as  a  talisman  had  her  letters  been.  He  thought  on 
the  years  that  were  passed,  on  their  last  interview,  when 
every  word  had  graven  itself  upon  his  heart,  on  the  devc*ednesa 
of  his  orphan  sister,  the  misery  he  had  once  occasioned ;  he 
thought  on  these  things  and  stood  firm, — the  tempter  fled. 
He  stood  before  them  erect  in  youthful  beauty,  no  inward 
stain  bade  him  turn  from  those  fond  looks  or  shrink  from  the 
entwining  arms  of  his  young  sister.  And,  oh,  how  blessed  is 
it  thus  to  meet !  to  feel  that  vanished  years  have  not  estranged 
us,  distance  hath  not  diminished  love,  that  we  are  to  each 
other  even  as  we  parted :  to  feel  again  the  fond  kiss,  to  hear 
once  more  the  accents  of  a  voice  which  to  us  has  been  for 
years  so  still — a  voice  that  brings  with  it  the  gush  of  memory  ! 
Past  days  flit  before  us  ;  feelings,  thoughts,  hopes,  we  deemed 
were  dead,  all  rise  again,  summoned  by  that  secret  witchery, 
the  well-remembered  though  long  silent  voice.  Let  years, 
long,  lingering,  saddening  years  drag  on  their  chain,  let  youth 
have  given  place  to  manhood,  manhood  to  age,  still  will  it  be 
the  same — the  voice  we  once  have  loved,  and  deemed  to  us  for 
ever  still — oh,  time,  and  grief,  and  blighted  hopes  will  be  for- 
gotten, and  youth,  in  its  undimined  and  joyous  beauty,  its 
glow  of  generous  feelings,  its  bright  anticipations,  all,  all  again 
be  ours. 

"  Mother ;  yes,  now  indeed  may  I  call  you  mother !" 
exclaimed  Edward,  when  the  agitation  of  this  sudden  meeting 
had  subsided,  and  he  found  himself  seated  on  a  sofa  between 
his  aunt  and  sister,  clasping  the  hand  of  the  former  and 
twining  his  arm  caressingly  round  the  latter.  "  Now  indeed 
may  I  indulge  in  the  joy  it  is  to  behold  you  both  again  ;  now 
may  I  stand  forth  unshrinkingly  to  meet  my  uncle's  glance, 
no  guilt,  or  shame,  or  fear  has  cast  its  mist  upon  my  heart. 
This  was  your  gift,"  he  drew  a  small  Bible  from  his'  bosom. 
%'I  read  it,  first,  because  it  had  been  yours,  because  it  was 
dear  to  you,  and  then  came  other  and  holier  thoughts,  and  I 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  26 1 

bowed  down  before  the  God  you  worshipped,  and  implored  His 
aid  to  find  strength,  and  he  heard  me." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  pressed  his  hand,  but  spoke  not,  and  after 
a  brief  silence,  Edward,  changing  his  tone  and  his  subject, 
launched  at  once,  with  all  his  natural  liveliness,  into  a  hurried 
talc  of  his  voyage  to  England.  An  unusually  quick  passage 
gave  him  and  all  the  youngsters  the  opportunity  they  desired, 
of  returning  to  their  various  homes  quite  unexpectedly.  The 
vessel  had  only  arrived  off  Plymouth  the  previous  night,  or 
rather  morning,  for  it  was  two  o'clock ;  by  noon  the  ship  was 
dismantled,  the  crew  dismissed,  leave  of  absence  bt/ing  granted 
to  all.  And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  laughingly  declar- 
ed, he  fancied  being  the  captain's  favorite  very  annoying,  as  his 
presence  and  assistance  were  requested  at  a  time  when  his 
heart  was  at  Oakwood  ;  however,  he  was  released  at  last, 
procured  a  horse,  and  galloped  away.  His  disasters  were  not, 
however,  over ;  his  horse  fell  lame,  as  if,  Edward  said,  he  felt 
a  seaman  was  not  a  fit  master  for  him.  He  was  necessitated 
to  leave  the  poor  animal  to  the  care  of  a  cottager,  and  proceed 
on  foot,  avoiding  the  village  for  fear  of  being  recognized  before 
he  desired  ;  he  exercised  his  memory  by  going  through  the 
lanes,  and  reached  Oakwood  by  a  private  entrance.  Aston- 
ished at  seeing  the  rooms,  by  the  windows  of  which  he  passed, 
deserted,  he  began  to  fear  the  family  were  all  in  London  ;  but 
the  well-known  sound  of  his  aunt's  voice  drew  him  to  the 
library,  just  as  he  was  seeking  the  main  entrance  to  have  his 
doubts  solved.  He  stood  for  a  few  minutes  gazing  on  the  two 
beings  who,  more  vividly  than  any  others,  had  haunted  his 
dream?  by  night  and  visions  by  day ;  he  had  wished  to  meet 
them  first,  and  alone,  and  his  wish  was  granted. 

Wrapped  in  her  happy  feelings,  it  was  her  brother's  arm 
around  her,  her  brother's  voice  she  heard.  Ellen  listened  to 
him  in  trembling  eagerness,  scarcely  venturing  to  breathe,  lest 
that  dear  voice  should  be  still,  lest  the  hand  she  clasped  should 
fade  away,  and  she  should  wake  and  find  it  but  a  dream  of 
bliss — Edward  could  not  really  have  returned  ;  and  Mrs.  Ha- 
milton felt  emotion  so  powerfully  swelling  within,  as  she  gazed 
once  more  on  the  brave  preserver  of  her  husband,  the  child  of 
her  sistor,  her  very  image,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she  could 
ask  those  many  questions  which  affection  and  interest  prompted. 

Edward  had  scarcely,  however,  finished  his  tale,  before  the 
sound  of  many  and  eager  voices,  the  joyous  laugh,  and  other 
signs  of  youthful  hilarity,  announced  the  return  of  the  party 


262  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

from  their  excursion.  Nor  was  it  long  before  Emmeline's  voice, 
as  usual,  sounded  in  loud  laughing  accents  for  her  mother, 
without  whose  sympathy  no  pleasure  was  complete. 

'•Do  not  disturb  yourselves  yet,  my  dear  children,"  Mrs. 
Hamilton  said,  as  she  rose,  knowing  well  how  many,  many 
things  the  long-separated  orphans  must  have  mutually  to  tell, 
and  penetrating  with  that  ready  sympathy — the  offspring  of 
true  kindness — their  wish  for  a  short  time  to  remain  alone  to- 
gether. "  You  shall  not  be  summoned  to  join  us  till  tea  is 
quite  ready,  and  if  you  wish  it,  Edward,"  she  added,  with  a 
smile,  "you  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  startling  your  uncle  and 
cousins  as  agreeably  as  you  did  us.  I  will  control  my  desire 
to  proclaim  the  happy  tidings  of  your  safe  return." 

She  left  the  brother  and  sister  together ;  sending  Robert 
with  a  lamp,  that  they  might  have  the  gratification  of  seeing 
each  other,  which  the  increasing  darkness  had  as  yet  entirely 
prevented  ;  and  a  gratification  to  both  it  was  indeed.  Ed<vard 
had  left  his  sister  comparatively  well,  but  with  the  traces  of  her 
severe  illuess  still  remaining  vividly  impressed  upon  her  fea- 
tures ;  but  now  he  saw  her  radiant  in  health,  in  happiness,  and 
beauty  so  brilliant,  he  could  hardly  recognize  that  fair  and 
graceful  girl  for  the  ailing,  drooping  child  she  had  once  been. 
Nor  was  the  contrast  less  striking  between  the  Ellen  of  the 
present  meeting  and  the  Ellen  of  the  last ;  then  wretchedness, 
misery,  inward  fever,  consumed  her  outward  frame,  and  left  its 
scorching  brand  upon  her  brow.  Remorseful  anguish  had 
bowed  her  down  ;  and  now  he  had  returned  when  her  heart  was 
free  and  light  as  the  mountain  breeze,  her  self-inspired  pen- 
ance was  completed  ;  and  nothing  now  existed  to  make  her 
shrink  from  the  delight  of  devoting  hours  to  her  brother. 

"  Tell  James  to  g<r  over  to  the  Rectory,  with  my  compli- 
ments to  Mr.  Howard,  and  if  he  be  not  particularly  engaged, 
I  beg  he  will  join  us  this  evening,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  a  short 
time  after  she  had  left  the  library,  addressing  Martyn,  then 
crossing  the  hall. 

'•  Have  you  any  particular  wish  for  our  worthy  rector  this 
evening,  Emmeline?"  demanded  Mr.  Hamilton,  gazing,  as  he 
spoke,  with  admiration  and  surprise  on  the  countenance  of  his 
wife,  whose  expressive  features  vainly  strove  to  conceal  inter- 
nal happiness. 

"A  most  earnest  desire,"  she  replied,  smiling,  somewhat 
archly. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  curious" — 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  263 

"  I  am  sorry,  dear  Arthur,  for  I  am  no  advocate  for  curi- 
osity, and  cannot  indulge  it." 

"  Ah,  papa,  there  is  a  gentle  hint  for  you,  and  a  broader  one 
for  me,"  exclaimed  Emmeline,  laughing  ;  while  conjectures  as 
to  what  Mrs.  Hamilton's  business  with  the  rector  could  po««i- 
bly  be,  employed  the  time  merrily  till  the  whole  party  were 
assembled. 

;;  You  may  depend,  Emmeline,  it  is  to  arrange  all  the  ne- 
cessary minutiae  for  your  marriage."  said  Lord  St.  Eval,  who 
had  been  persuaded  to  remain  at  Oakwood  that  night.  "Your 
mother  has  selected  a  husband  for  you ;  and,  fearing  your  op- 
position, has  sent  for  Mr.  Howard  that  all  may  be  said  and  done 
at  once." 

'•  I  hope,  then,  that  I  am  the  man,"  exclaimed  Lord  Louis, 
laughing;  "there  is  no  one  else  whom  she  can  very  well  have 
at  heart,  not  that  I  see."  he  added,  looking  mischievously 
round  him,  while  some  strange  and  painful  emotions  suddenly 
checked  Emmeline's  flow  of  spirits,  aiid  utterly  prevented  her 
replying. 

A  flush  of  crimson  d}Ted  her  cheek  and  brow  ;  nay,  her  fair 
neck  partook  its  hue.  and  she  suddenly  turned  towards  her 
mother,  with  a  glance  that  seemed  of  entreaty. 

"  Why,  Emmeline,  my  dear  child,  you  surely  cannot  believe 
there  is  the  least  particle  of  truth  in  my  mischievous  son's 
assertion,"  said  the  Marchioness  of  Malvern,  pitying,  though 
she'wonderod  at  her  very  evident  distress. 

"  And  is  marriage  so  very  disagreeable  to  you  even  in 
thought?"  demanded  Lord  St.  Eval.  still  provokingly. 

'•  The  very  idea  is  dreadful ;  I  love  my  liberty  too  well." 
answered  Emmeline,  hastily  rallying  her  energies  with  an  ef- 
fort, and  she  ran  on  in  her  usual  careless  style ;  but  her  eye 
glanced  on  the  tall  figure  of  young  Myrvin.  as  he  stood  with 
Herbert  at  a  distant  window,  and  words  and:  liveliness  again 
for  a  moment  failed.  His  arms  were  folded  on  his  bosom, 
and  his  grey  eye  rested  on  her  with  an  expression  almost  of 
despair,  for  the  careless  words  of  Lord  Louis  had  reached  his 
heart — "  No  one  else  she  can  have." 

Lord  Louis  had  forgotten  him,  or  intentionally  reminded 
him  that  he  was  indeed  as  a  cipher  in  that  noble  circle ;  that 
h'e  might  not.  dared  not  aspire  to  that  fair  hand.  He  gazed 
on  her,  and  she  met  his  look ;  and  if  that  earnest,  almost 
agonized  glance  betrayed  to  her  young  and  guileless  bosom 
that  she  was  beloved,  it  was  not  the  only  secret  she  that  night 
discovered. 


264  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Mr.  Hamilton  was  too  earnestly  engaged  in  conversation 
with  Sir  George  Wilniot  to  notice  the  painful  confusion  of  his 
child  ;  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  thinking  too  deeply  and  hap- 
pily on  Ellen's  conduct  and  Edward's  return,  to  bestow  the 
attention  that  it  merited,  and  consequently  it  passed  without 
remark. 

"  Mother,  I  am  sorry  to  be  the  first  to  inform  you  of  such 
a  domestic  misfortune,"  said  Percy,  soon  after  entering  the 
room,  apparently  much  amused,  "but  Robert  has  suddenly 
lost  his  wits ;  either  something  extraordinary  has  happened, 
or  is  about  to  happen,  or  the  poor  fellow  has  become  bewitched. 
You  smile,  mother ;  on  my  honor,  I  think  it  no  smiling  mat- 
ter." 

"  Never  mind.  Percy  ;  your  favorite  attendant  will,  I  have 
no  doubt,  recover  his  senses  before  the  night  is  over.  I  am 
not  in  the  least  anxious,"  replied  his  mother,  smiling. 

"  Percy,  your  mother  has  clothed  herself  to-night  in  im- 
penetrable mystery,  so  do  not  hope  to  discover  any  thing 
through  her,"  said  Lord  St.  Eval,  laughing,  and  the  young 
men  continued  gayly  conversing  with  Lady  Gertrude  and  Car- 
oline, till  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Howard  and  the  announcement 
of  tea  or  supper ;  of  both  of  which,  after  a  day  spent  in  the 
country  as  this  had  been,  the  evening  meal  partook. 

"  Ellen — where  is  Ellen  ?"  said  several  voices,  as  they 
seated  themselves  round  the  hospitable  board,  and  observed 
her  place  was  vacant ;  and  Sir  George  Wilmot  eagerl}  joined 
the  inquiry. 

"  She  will  join  us  shortly,  Sir  George,"  replied  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton, and,  turning  to  a  servant  near  her,  desired  him  to  let 
Miss  Fortescue  know  tea  was  ready. 

<;  I  will  go,  madam.  Stand  back,  James,  let  me  pass."  ex- 
claimed Robert,  hastily,  and  he  bounded  out  of  the  apartment 
with  a  most  extraordinary  failing  of  his  wonted  respect. 

"  There,  proof  positive  ;  did  I  not  tell  you  the  lad  was  mad," 
said  Percy,  and,  as  if  in  confirmation  of  his  words,  almost 
directly  after  a  loud  and  joyful  shout  sounded  from  the  ser- 
vants' hall. 

Mr.  Hamilton  looked  up  inquiringly,  and  in  doing  so,  his 
eye  caught  an  object  that  caused  him  to  start  from  his  seat 
with  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure ;  while  Percy, 
leaping  over  chairs  and  tables  that  stood  in  his  way,  unheed- 
ing Lord  Louis's  inquiry,  whether  Robert  had  infected  him, 
shook  and  shook  again  the  hand  of  the  long-absent  relative, 


MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  265 

ta  *,Kom  both  he  and  Herbert  could  only  recognize  the  pre- 
seKcr  of  their  father.  Herbert  and  his  sisters  simultaneously 
left  il-eir  seats  and  crowded  round  him.  Warmly,  affection- 
ately, Edward  greeted  them  one  and  all,  and  rapidly  answered 
the  innumerable  questions  of  Percy ;  defended  his  sister  from, 
all  share  in  his  concealment,  of  which  Herbert  and  Emmeline 
laughmgiy  accused  her.  Trie  flush  of  almost  painful  bashful- 
ness  still  lingered  on  his  cheek,  as  he  marked  the  eyes  of  all 
fixed  upon  him,  strangers  as  well  as  friends ;  but  as  he  turned 
in  the  direction  of  his  aunt,  and  his  eye  fell  on  the  venerable 
figure  of  his  revered  preceptor,  who  stood  aside,  enjoying  the 
little  scene  he  beheld,  as  the  remembrance  of  the  blessed 
words,  the  soothing  comfort  that  impressive  voice  had  spoken 
in  his  hour  of  greatest  need,  the  lessons  of  his  childhood,  his 
dawning  youth,  rushed  on  his  mind,  control,  hesitation,  re- 
serve, were  all  at  an  end  ;  he  broke  from  the  surrounding  and 
eager  group,  even  from  the  detaining  arm  of  his  sister,  sprung 
towards  him,  and  clasping  both  Mr.  Howard's  hands,  his  eyes 
glistened  and  his  voice  quivered  as  he  exclaimed — 

':  Mr  Howard,  too  !  one  of  my  first,  my  best,  and  kindest 
friends.  Ellen  told  me  not  of  this  unexpected  pleasure ;  this 
is  joy,  indeed." 

i;  A  joy  to  me.  too,  my  dear  boy,  equally  unexpected ;  we 
must  thank  Mrs.  Hamilton  for  this  early  meeting.  I  knew 
not  the  pleasure  she  had  prepared  for  me."  replied  Mr. 
Howard,  returning  the  pressure  of  Edward's  hand  with  equal 
warmth.  _ 

'•  Nor  did  any  one,  my  good  sir.  Never  will  I  say  again  a 
lady  cannot  keep  a  secret,"  said  the  Marquis  of  Malvern,  jest- 
ingly. '•  Mr.  Hamilton,  as  you  do  not  seem  inclined  to  honor 
me.  without  asking.  I  must  entreat  .a  formal  introduction  to 
that  gallant  nephew  of  yours,  whose  name  is  not  unknown  to 
naval  fame,  though  as  yet  but  one  of  her  junior  officers." 

"  I  really  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Lord ;  Edward's  sud- 
den appearance  has  startled  me  out  of  all  etiquette.  To  one 
and  all.  then,  of  my  good  friends  here,  allow  me  to  introduce 
to  their  indulgent  notice  this  said  Edward  Fortesque,  midship- 
man and  gallant  officer  on  board  His  Majesty's  good  ship 
Prince  William  ;  and.  in  order  that  all  reserve  may  be  at  an 
end  between  us,  I  propose  a  bumper  to  the  health  and  pros- 
perity of  the  wanderer  returned." 

iv  Most  excellent,  my  dear  father ;  one  that  1  will  second 
with  all  my  heart,"  exclaimed  Percy,  eagerly.  "  For  that  am- 
12 


266  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

phibious  animal  looks  marvellously  like  a  fish  out  of  water 
amongst  us  all ;  and  here  we  admit  no  strangers.  Edward, 
there  is  a  vacant  seat  reserved  for  you  by  my  mother's  side, 
who  looks  much  as  if  she  would  choose  you  for  her  knight  this 
evening ;  and,  therefore,  though  your  place  in  future  is 
amongst  the  young  ladies,  to  whom  by  and  by  I  mean  to  intro- 
duce you  by  name  and  character,  we  will  permit  you  to  sit 
there  to-night.  Ellen,  my  little  coz,  where  are  you?  You 
must  be  content  with  looking  at  your  brother,  not  sitting  by 
him.  I  cannot  allow  such  breaches  of  etiquette  ;  that  is  quite 
impossible." 

"  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  where  I  am,  Percy,"  replied  his 
cousin,  laughing,  as  she  obeyed  the  Marchioness  of  Malvern'a 
request,  and  seated  herself  beside  her.  Every  eye  was  turned 
on  Ellen  with  an  admiration,  which,  had  not  her  thoughts  been 
engrossed  with  her  brother,  would  have  been  actually  painful 
to  one  of  her  quick  feelings.  Lady  Malvern  longed  to  hear 
from  her  young  favorite,  in  w&rds,  the  internal  delight  which 
was  so  evident  in  every  feature,  and,  by  her  kindly  sympathy, 
succeeded  in  her  wishes.  The  young  sailor's  health  was  cele- 
brated with  enthusiasm ;  and  Edward,  gracefully,  though 
briefly,  returned  his  thanks,  while  the  kindness  of  all  around 
him,  the  easy  friendliness  of  those  who  were  strangers,  and  the 
joy  of  feeling  himself  once  more  in  the  midst  of  those  he 
loved,  soon  placed  him  pe/fectly  at  ease. 

Ellen  looked  eagerly  round  her  circle  of  friends,  to  mark 
the  impression  made  by  Edward,  and  even  her  fond  affection 
was  fully  satisfied.  Sir  George  Wiluiot  had  n™  spoken,  but 
his  eye  kindled  with  animation  as  in  the  gallant  young  sailor 
he  recalled  his  own  youthful  days,  while  some  other  sad  re- 
membrances kept  him  silent,  and  checked  his  usual  hilarity. 
Lord  Malvern  appeared  almost  as  interested  as  MI*.  Hamilton. 
Lady  Gertrude's  kind  glance  met  hers,  and  told,  by  its  silent 
eloquence,  how  well  she  sympathized  in  Ellen's  feelings;  and 
Lord  St.  Eval,  too,  his  smile  spoke  volumes,  though  his  natural 
reserve  prevented  his  addressing  Edward,  while  the  young  and 
lively  members  of  the  party  seemed  to  find  abundant  amuse- 
ment in  the  anecdotes  and  adventures  he  narrated.  Arthur 
Myrvin  gazed  earnestly  at  him,  and  for  a  time  banished  his 
own  diotressing  thoughts  in  the  endeavor  to  trace  in  the  fine 
manly  youth  before  him  some  likeness  to  the  handsome,  yet 
violent  and  mischievous  boy  he  had  first  and  last  seen  in  thi 
Village  of  Llangwillan. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  267 

"I  nave  heard  so  much  of  Edward,  from  my  friend  Ellen 
here,  tliat  I  am  most  anxious  to  cultivate  his  acquaintance,  and 
trust  Castle  Malvern  will  often  be  graced  by  the  presence  o* 
such  a  gallant  young  sailor,"  was  the  Marchioness  of  Malvern's 
kind  address,  after  they  had  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room, 
as.  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Ellen,  she  advanced  to  the  young 
man.  who,  from  Percy's  lively  introduction,  was  playing  the 
agreeable  to  Lady  Florence  and  Lady  Emily  Lyle,  while  Lord 
JUouis,  who  found  something  in  Edward's  countenance  that 
promised  a  kindred  feeling  for  fun  and  frolic,  was  demanding 
question  after  question,  which  Edward  was  answering  in  a 
manner  calculated  to  excite  the  continued  merriment  of  his 
companions,  till  a  sign  from  his  aunt  called  him  to  her  side. 

'•So  I  must  entreat  Admiral  Sir  George  Wilmot  to  deign 
to  notice  my  nephew,  it  will  not  be  given  unasked,"  she  said, 
approaching  the  aged  officer,  who  was  sitting  a  little  apart, 
(shading  his  eyes  with  his  han5i,  as  if  in  deep  thought.  "  Sir 
George,  I  shall  impeach  you  of  high  treason  against  me,  the 
liege  lady  of  this  fortress,  that  on  a  night  when  all  is  joy,  you, 
who  are  generally  the  gayest,  should  be  sad.  What  excuse 
can  you  urge  in  your  defence  ?" 

"  Is  Edward  unworthy  of  the  high  privilege  of  being  a 
sailor,  Sir  George?"  whispered  Ellen,  archly,  "or  is  your 
wrath  against  me,  for  not  joining  your  expedition  this  morn- 
ing, to  be  extended  to  him  ?  will  you  not  look  on  him  as  a 
brother  seaman  ?" 

{i  Nay,  Ellen,  I  must  toil  through  long  years  of  servitude, 
I  must  reap  very  many  laurels,  ere  I  can  deserve  that  title," 
said  Edward.  "  The  name  of  Sir  George  Wilmot  is  too  well 
known  on  the  broad  seas  for  me  to  hope  for  more  than  a  word 
of  encouragement  from  him,  or  to  enable  me  to  look  on  him 
with  any  other  feelings  than  those  of  the  deepest  reverence 
and  res,pect." 

"Ay,  ay,  young  man,  you  wish  to  surprise  the  old  hulk  to 
surrender ;  gayly  rigged  and  manned  as  you  are,  you  think,  by 
a  show  of  homage  to  me,  to  surprise  me  into  paying  it  to  you," 
said  the  old  man,  rousing  himself  from  his  abstraction,  "and 
laughing  as  he  spoke.  "  Do  not  deny  it,  youngster,  but  I  for- 
give you;  for  I  have  been  an  old  fool,  Mrs.  Hamilton.  1 
plead  guilty,  and  throw  myself  on  your  mercy.  You,  Mistress 
Ellen,  you  deserve  nothing  from  me,  after  rejecting  every 
courtly  speech  I  could  think  of  this  morning,  to  persuade  you 
to  crowd  sail  and  steer  out  under  my  guidance,  instead  of  re- 


268  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

maining  safe  in  harbor.  Jokes  apart,  if  you,  young  sir,  will 
feel  pleasure  in  the  friendship  of  an  old  time-worn  servant  of 
his  Majesty  as  I  am,  I  offer  you  my  hand  with  all  the  warmth 
and  sincerity  of  our  noble  profession.  For  your  uncle's  sako 
as  well  as  your  own,  my  best  wishes  and  my  best  offices  shall 
be  exercised  in  tacking  on  lieutenant  to  your  name." 

"And  you  will  do  nothing,  then,  for  my  sake,  Sir  George, 
nor  for  my  aunt's,  whose  dignity  your  sadness  has  offended?" 
Said  Ellen,  smiling,  as  did  Mrs.  Hamilton. 

"  Your  aunt  would  forgive  my  sadness,  my  dear  child,  did 
she  know  its  cause.  I  was  wrong  to  encourage  it,  but  I  could 
not  look  on  these  bright  features,"  he  laid  his  hand,  which 
trembled,  on  Edward's  arm,  "without  seeing  again  past  times, 
peopled  with  those  who  have  passed  away.  Mrs.  Hamilton,  I 
thought  again  the  merry  favorite  of  my  old  friend,  your  father, 
stood  before  me,  the  gay,  the  thoughtless,  lovely  Eleanor ;  she 
was  like  him,  in  the  bloom  of  youth  and  freshness,  when  I 
it»ot  beheld  her ;  and  I  thought,  as  mine  eye  glanced  on  this 
well-known  uniform,  there  was  another  still  of  whom  he  re- 
minded me. — the  adopted  son  of  my  affections,  the  darling  of 
my  childless  years,  Charles,  my  gallant  warm-hearted  Charles  ! 
Nearly  six  years  was  he  with  me.  when  his  courage  earned  him 
a  lieutenant's  berth ;  he  changed  his  quarters  and  his  com- 
mander, and  I  saw  him  no  more.  Such  was  he ;  such — oh,  I 
thought  Eleanor  and  Charles  again  were  before  me,  and  I 
longed  for  the  friend  of  my  early  years,  to  recognize  in  his 
grandson  the  features  of  his  Eleanor,  the  voice,  the  laugh,  and 
figure  of  his  Charles.  Forgive  me,  my  dear  children,  I  have 
frightened  away  your  mirth,  and  made  myself  gloomy." 

There  was  silence  as  he  ceased,  and  Sir  George  was  the 
first  to  break  it,  by  addressing  Edward  with  animation,  ques- 
tioning him  as  to  all  his  nopes  and  anticipations  with  regard  to 
his  promotion,  which,  as  his  six  years  of  service  were  now 
passed,  he  allowed  to  occupy  his  mind,  and  in  such  conversa- 
tion all  traces  of  gloom  quickly  vanished ;  and  Ellen,  interest- 
ed in  their  conference,  lingered  near  them  in  recovered 
spirits,  till  the  bell  summoned  all  those  who  chose  to  join  in 
the  evening  prayer.  All  attended,  except  young  Myrvin,  who 
had  departed.  Herbert  felt  anxious  on  his  friend's  account, 
for  many  reasons,  which  we  must  postpone  explaining  till  a 
fature  page  ;  suffice  it  now  to  say  that  the  young  man's  conduct 
not  seeming  to  be  such  as  his  profession  demanded,  a  degree 
of  scarcely  perceptible,  but  keenly-felt  coldness  was  displayed 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  269 

towards  him,  both  by  Mr.  Hamilton  and  Mr.  Howard.  Herbert 
had  this  night  remarked  that  his  cheek  was  pale,  his  eyo 
almost  haggard,  and  his  words  and  manner  often  confused, 
and  he  had  endeavored  to  elicit  the  cause  of  his  inward  dis- 
turbance, but  unsuccessfully;  the  young  man,  although  ver* 
evidently  unhappy,  appeared  to  shrink  from  his  confidence, 
and  Herbert,  though  grieved,  desisted  from  his  friendly  office. 
That  night  Mr.  Hamilton  resigned  his  place  at  the  reading- 
desk  to  the  worthy  minister,  wh';  both  in  public  and  private 
worship,  knew  so  well  the  duties  of  his  sacred  office.  He 
read  the  chapters  of  the  evening,  with  a  brief  but  explanatory 
commentary  on  each,  and  after  the  usuai  prayers,  broke  forth 
into  a  strain  of  earnest  thanksgiving  for  the  safe  return  of  him 
who.  since  he  had  last  addressed  his  God,  surrounded  by  big 
family,  had  been  exposed  to  the  temptations  and  dangers  of 
the  sea,  and  mercifully  preserved  through  them  all,  and  per- 
mitted to  return  in  joy  and  peace.  To  all,  save  to  the  or- 
phans and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  his  words  applied  but  to 
the  terrors  of  the  deep,  but  they  well  knew  where  the  thoughts 
of  their  minister  had  wandered ;  they  knew  that  fervent 
thanksgiving  was  offered  up  for  his  preservation  from  those 
sins  which  had  been  his  on  his  last  return;  they  knew  he 
blessed  his  Maker  for  the  promise  of  virtue  he  beheld;  His 
grace  had  enabled  him  to  overcome  temptation,  and  return  to 
the  home  of  his  boyhood  comparatively  unstained. 

Edward  contrasted  his  present  feelings  with  those  which 
he  had  experienced  the  first  night  of  his  last  return,  and  Ellen 
thought  on  that  Htter  anguish,  the  public  shame  which  had 
been  hers  in  that  very  hall,  that  very  night  three  years  before, 
and  lhe  young  hearts  of  both  the  orphans  were  filled  with 
warm  and  deep  thanksgiving.  The  thoughts  of  all  were  com- 
posed and  tranquillized  when  Mr.  Howard  ceased,  and  in  the 
little  time  that  intervened  between  the  conclusion  of  the  ser- 
vice and  the  family  separating  to  their  rooms,  no  light  and  fri- 
volous converse  disturbed  the  solemn  but  not  sad  impression 
on  the  minds  of  each. 

"I  cannot  part  from  you  for  the  night,  ray  dear  cousin,'' 
said  Edward,  somewhat  archly,  though  in  a  low  voice,  as  he 
approached  the  spot  where  Caroline  and  St.  Eval  stood,  u  with- 
out offering  you  my  warmest  congratulations  on  your  future 
prospects,  and  without  requesting  an  introduction  from  you  to 
him.  in  whom  I  am  to  welcome  a  new  relative.  I  have  been 
wishing  to  do  so  all  the  evening,  but  when  I  was  at  liberty  I 
missed  you." 


270  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  > 

Evidently  pleased,  Caroline  looked  up  into  St.  Eval's  face, 
but  before  she  could  speak,  the  young  Earl  had  warmly  pressed 
Edward's  hand,  and  answered  with  sincerity  and  kindness 
equal  to  his  own.  The  whole  party  very  soon  afterwards 
dispersed. 

Were  it  ours  to  follow  our  young  and  still,  in  appearance, 
childlike  friend  Emmeline  Hamilton  to  her  room  that  night,  we 
should  see  that  the  smiles  which  had  beaded  around  her  lip 
had  passed  away,  the  flush  on  her  cheek  was  no  longer  there, ' 
and  one  or  two  bright  drops  might  have  been  observed  slowly 
falling  on  her  pale  cheek,  as  she  sat  in  deep  musing,  ere  she 
retired  to  her  couch.  She  had  dismissed  Fanny,  alleging  that 
she  did  not  require  her  aid,  and  her  long  silky  hair,  loosed 
from  its  confinement,  hung  carelessly  in  golden  waves  around 
her.  Tears  fell  on  her  hand  ;  she  started,  and  flung  back  her 
tresses,  looked  fearfully  around  her,  and  passed  her  hand 
across  her  eyes,  as  if  to  check  them — but  ineifectually;  another 
and  another  fell ;  she  leaned  her  crossed  arms  upon  the  pil- 
low, and  her  head  drooped  on  them,  and  she  wept,  wept  as  she 
had  never  wept  before,  and  yet  she  knew  not  wherefore ;  she 
was  sad.  how  deeply  sad,  but  that  young  and  guileless  spirit 
knew  not  why.  Child  she  was  still  in  looks,  in  playfulness,  in 
glee  ;  a  child  she  still  believed  herself,  but  she  was  no  child — 
that  age  of  buoyancy  had  fled,  and  Emmeline  was,  indeed,  a 
woman,  a  thinking,  feeling,  ay,  and  loving  woman. 

It  might  have  been  nearly  a  week  after  Edward's  return, 
when,  on  entering  the  library  one  morning.  Mrs.  Hamilton  ob- 
served her  husband,  Mr.  Howard,  and  Edward,  in  earnest  con- 
ference, the  latter  appearing  somewhat  agitated.-  She  would 
have  retreated,  imagining  her  presence  mistimed,  but  Edward, 
the  instant  he  perceived  her,  sprung  forward,  and  seizing  both 
•  her  hands,  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  entreaty — 

"  Dearest  aunt,  will  not  you  use  your  influence  with  my 
uncle,  and  prevail  on  him  to  take  the  sum  I  have  saved  at  dif- 
ferent times,  from  my  prize-money  and  other  things,  to  replace 
that  which — which  was  lost  three  years  ago?  To  obtain  suffi- 
cient, I  have  denjed  myself  all  unnecessary  indulgence  ;  it  has 
checked  my  natural  extravagance ;  prevented  me,  when  some- 
times I  have  been  strongly  tempted  to  play,  or  join  my  mess- 
mates in  questionable  amusements  In  saving  that,  I  have  cured 
myself  of  many  faults ;  it  has  taught  me  economy  and  con- 
trol, for.  by  the  time  the  whole  amount  was  saved  my  wishes  and 
evil  inclinations  were  conquered.  I  look  on  it  as  a  debt  which 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  27  i 

1  had  bound  myself  to  pay.  I  anticipated  the  pleasure  of 
telling  my  dear  sister,  she  might  banish  the  past  entirely  from 
lier  mind,  for  I  would  not  write  a  word  of  my  intentions,  lest 
I  should  fail  in  them  ere  I  returned.  And  now  my  uncle  re- 
fus-s  to  grant  my  request;  Mr.  Howard  will  not  second  me; 
:uid — ;md  1  see  liow  it  is,"  be  continued,  with  a  return  of  for- 
m  r  violence  in  his  manner,  as  he  paced  the  room,  and  a  flush 
burned  on  his  cheek,  "  my  uncle  will  not  consent  to  look  on  it 
as  a  debt;  he  will  not  permit  me,  even  as  far  as  this  will  do  it, 
to  redeem  my  sister." 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken,  my  deaj  boy,"  replied  Mr.  Ha- 
milton, mildly.  "  Your  sister's  own  conduct  has  sufficiently 
pn.vi-d  to  me  her  repentance  and  amendment;  her  gentle  vir- 
tues and  faultless  conduct  have  quite  redeemed  the  past,  and 
so  has  yours.  I  refuse  to  take  your  well-earned  savings,  merely 
becauss  they  really  are  not  necessary." 

'•  But  if  it  will  give  me  pleasure,  if  it  will  satisfy  me. 
Dearest  aunt,  plead  fo~  me ;  you  know  not  the  relief  it  will 
be."  again  entreated  Euward.  as  he  paused,  in  his  hasty  walk, 
and  looked  beseechingly  in  his  aunt's  face. 

':  Nny.  dear  Edward,  do  not  demand  impossibilities,"  she 
rej  lied,  smiling,  '•  I  cannot  plead  for  you.  That  money  with 
which  you  appear  so  very  eager  to  part,  must  return  to  your 
own  purse ;  your  sister's  debt  is  already  paid." 

"  Paid  !"  repeated  Mr  Hamilton  and  Mr.  Howard,  in  as- 
tonishment, while  Edward  stood  as  if  bewildered.  "  How,  and 
by  whom  ?" 

"By  Ellen  herself.''  *eplied  Mrs.  Hamilton:  and  address- 
ing her  husband,  she  added,  "  I  should  have  told  you  before, 
but  we  have  both  boon  too  much  engaged  the  last  two  days  to 
allow  any  time  for  private  conversation ;  and  my  Ellen  had  en- 
treated that  only  you  should  know  her  secret ;  but  she  would, 
I  know,  have  made  an  exception  in  Mr.  Howard's  favor  had  I 
demanded  it  for  his  excellent  lessons  have  in  all  probability 
assisted  in  making  her  the  character  she  is ;  and  as  for  her 
brother — why,  in  charity,  he  shall  know  this  strange  tale."  she 
added,  smiling;  and  briefly,  but  with  affecting  accuracy,  she 
related  all  that  had  passed  between  her  and  Ellen  on  the  even- 
ing of  Edward's  return.  Mr.  Hamilton  and  Mr.  Howard  list- 
ened in  astonishment,  for  they  knew  not  the  quiet  steadiness, 
the  unwavering  firmness  of  Ellen's  private  character  ;  they 
guessed  not  the  deep  remorse  which  had  been  her  own,  nor 
for  how  long  it  had  guided  and  purified  her  actions.  Edward 


272  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

had  coucealed  his  face  in  his  hands,  his  arms  resting  upon  tb« 
table,  for  he  felt  in  this  tale  of  persevering  effort  and  self- 
denial,  in  comparison  with  Ellen's,  as  if  his  had  sunk  to  no- 
thing; the  bright  lustre  of  his  sister's  character  hau.  dimmed 
even  to  obscurity  his  own. 

"And  have  you  questioned  Ellis?  do  you  know  in  what 
manner  she  contrived  so  secretly  to  render  her  assistance?" 
demanded  Mr.  Hamilton,  with  much  interest. 

"  I  have."  replied  his  wife.  "  I  did  so  that  same  night ;  for 
even  Edward's  unexpected  return  could  not  banish  his  sister 
from  my  mind.  Slie  tc/ld  me,  that  at  first  she  did  all  she 
could  to  turn  Ellen  from  her  purpose ;  but  when  she  found 
her  resolution  was  unalterably  fixed  by  some  means  to  earn  suf- 
ficient to  repay  the  cause  of  so  much  distress,  she  enrered 
warmly  into  her  plan  ;  and,  with  the  active  assistance  of  Ro- 
bert, procured  her  work  from  the  baby-linen  warehouses  at  Ply- 
mouth. She  first -began  with  the  plainest  work,  but  that  suc- 
ceeded so  well,  finer  was  given  to  her.  In  London  she  worked 
embroidery,  purchasing  the  materials  from  her  own  pocket- 
money,  and  consequently  largely  increasing  her  hoard.  Spite 
of  her  ill  health,  the  first  winter  we  spent  in  London,  she  perse- 
veringly  continued  her  irksome  task,  rising  even  in  the  coldest 
weather  at  six,  the  provident  care  of  Ellis  causing  her  fire  to 
be  lighted  almost  the  earliest  in  the  house.  Robert  was  the 
messenger  employed  to  and  fro,  but  no  one  knew  her  name  or 
rank  ;  for.  devoted  as  we  well  know  he  is  to  Ellen,  ha  took  the 
trouble  of  changing  his  livery  for  plain  clothes,  whenever  Ellis 
sent  him  on  his  mission.  Her  secret  has,  indeed,  been  well 
preserved  both  from  us  and  those  who  employed  her.  Man}', 
very  many  silent  tears  Ellis  believes  have  fallen  over  my  poor 
Ellen's  tedious  task;  many  a  struggle  to  adhere  to  her  resolu- 
tion, and  not  throw  it  aside  in  despair  ;  and  frequently,  she 
told  me,  after  a  long,  solitary  evening,  she  has  thrown  her 
arms  around  Ellis's  neck,  and  wept  from  exhaustion,  and  the 
misery  of  hope  deferred,  for  at  first  it  did  appear  an  endless 
labor ;  but  she  persevered  unshrinkingly,  combating  her 
wishes  to  accompany  me  wherever  Emmeline  visited. 

"  And  it  was  this,  then,  that  caused  her  determination  to 
remain  at  home  till  next  year,"  observed  Mr.  Hamilton; 
t;poor  child,  our  harshness  was  no  sweetener  of  her  task." 

14  It  was  not.  indeed  ;  the  night  of  Emmuline's  introduction, 
Ellis  says,  she  wept  as  if  her  heart  would  break,  as  if  she  could 
not  keep  her  secret  any  longer ;  but  she  struggled  with  her 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  273 

self,  and  conquered  ;  although  many  times,  during  my  estrange- 
ment,  she  has  longed  to  confess  all,  but  the  fear  that  I  should 
forbid  her  continuing  her  task  restrained  her." 

"  I  am  very  glad  she  persevered  in  her  secret,"  said  Mr. 
Howard,  warmly ;  "  it  is  this  quiet  steady  perseverance  in  a 
p.unful  duty  that  has  pleased  me  far  more  than  even  the  action 
itself,  guided  as  that  was  by  every  proper  feeling.  Extra- 
ordinary sacrifices  of  our  own  formation  are  not,  in  general,  as 
acceptable  to  Him  for  whose  sake  they  are  ostentatiously  made, 
as  the  quiet  steady  discharge  of  our  destined  duties — the  one 
is  apt  to  beget  pride,  the  other  true  humility ;  but  this  un- 
shaken resolution  in  one  so  young,  had  its  origin  from  true 
repentance,  and  aided  as  it  has  been  by  the  active  fulfilment  of 
every  duty,  strengthened  as  it  has,  no  doubt,  been  by  prayer, 
I  cannut  but  trust  her  heavenly  Master  will  look  down  with  an 
eye  of  mercy  on  His  young  servant.  Look  up,  Edward;  you, 
too,  have  done  your  duty.  Why  should  your  sister's  conduct 
cause  this  sudden  depression,  my  young  friend  ?" 

'•  Because,"  exclaimed  he,  with  an  earnestness  almost  start- 
ling, and  as  he  looked  up,  his  eyes  glistened  with  tears,  '•  because 
all  my  efforts  sink  to  nothing  beside  hers.  I  deemed  myself 
becoming  worthy ;  that  the  conquests  over  inclination  I  made 
would  obliterate  the  past;  but  what  are  my  sacrifices  compared 
to  hers  ?  Weak,  frail,  sensitive  creature  as  she  is,  thus  secretly, 
laboriously  to  earn  that  sum  which,  because  it  required  one 
or  two  petty  sacrifices  of  inclination,  1  deemed  that  I  had 
so  nobly  gained.  What  have  been  my  efforts  compared  to 
hers?" 

"  Almost  as  great  to  you,  my  dear  boy,  as  hers  were  to  her," 
said  Mr.  Hamilton,  kindly;  "you,  too,  have  done  well.  Your 
past  errors  have  already,  in  my  mind,  and  in  that  of  Mr. 
Howard  and  your  aunt's,  been  obliterated  by  the  pleasure  youi 
conduct  has  bestowed.  She  has  not  had  the  temptations  to  ex 
travagant  pleasure  which  have  been  yours ;  to  save  this  sum 
you  must  have  resigned  much  gratification.  You  have  acted 
thus  excellently,  in  part,  to  regain  the  good  opinion  of  your 
friends,  and  the  kind  wish  of  restoring  perfect  peace  to  your 
sister :  in  the  first,  you  have  fully  succeeded  ;  in  the  second, 
•when  your  sister  knows  what  has  been  the  secret  purpose  of 
your  life  for  three  long  years,  her  affections  will  amply  repay 
you.  You  are  deserving  of  each  other,  my  dear  Edward  ;  and 
this  moment  I  do  not  scruple  to  say,  I  am  proud  to  feel  myself 
BO  nearly  related  to  those  who,  young  as  they  both  are,  have 
12* 


274  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

BO  nobly  and  pcrseveringly  performed  their  duty  both  to  God 
and  man." 

Young  Fortescue  raised  his  uncle's  hand,  wrung  it  between 
both  his  own,  and  impetuously  darted  from  the  room. 

"  That  boy  would  teach  me  never  to  despair  again,  my  good 
friend,"  said  Mr.  Hamilton,  addressing  the  worthy  clergyman. 
"  When  last  he  left  me  I  had  learned  to  hope  and  yet  to  fear, 
for  I  dreaded  his  exposure  to  his  former  temptations ;  and 
now — glad,  indeed,  am  I  to  acknowledge  myself  vanquished, 
and  to  own  you  were  ever  in  the  right." 

Mr   Howard  smiled. 

"  And  now  does  my  husband  regret  his  having  adopted  my 
sister's  orphan  as  his  own  ?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hamilton,  en- 
twining her  arm  in  her  husband's,  and  looking  caressingly  in 
his  face. 

"  No,  my  dearest  wife ;  once,  indeed,  when  I  beheld  you 
in  fancy  about  to  sink  beneath  the  accumulation  of  misery  and 
anxiety  both  Edward  and  Ellen's  conduct  occasioned,  I  did  in 
secret  murmur  that  the  will  of  my  heavenly  Father  had  con- 
signed to  us  the  care  of  such  misguided  ones;  I  fear  I  looked 
on  them  as  the  disturbers  of  family  peace  and  harmony,  when 
it  was  the  will  of  my  God.  I  felt  indignant  and  provoked 
with  them,  when  I  should  have  bowed  submissively  to  Him. 
I  have  been  blessed  in  them  when  I  deserved  it  not.  You 
ever  trusted,  my  Etnmeline,  though  far  greater  distress  was 
your  lot  than  mine.  You  never  repented  of  that  kindness 
which  bade  your  heart  bleed  for  their  orphan  state,  and  urged 
you  to  take  them  to  your  gentle  bosom,  and  soothe  them  as 
your  own.  I  know  that  at  this  moment  you  have  your  reward." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  prevented  from  replying  by  the  en- 
trance of  Edward,  who  eagerly  inquired  for  his  sister,  alleging 
he  had  searched  every  room  in  the  house  and  could  not  find 
her. 

"  She  has  gone  with  Herbert  to  the  village,  to  take  the 
fruits  of  her  own  work,  some  baby  linen,  to  the  poor  woman 
in  whose  fate  I  am  so  interested,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and 
turning  to  her  husband,  added — "  Now  we  really  are  alone, 
my  dear  Arthur,  will  you  give  a  little  of  your  time  to  inform 
me  in  what  manner  I*  can  best  lay  out,  for  this  unfortunate 
being's  advantage,  the  sura  my  Ellen  has  placed  in  my  hands? 
Do  not  lo)k  at  me,  Edward,  as  if  to  implore  me  to  take 
yours  also,  for  I  mean  to  be  very  positive,  and  say  at  once  I 
will  uot  ' 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  275 

u  Come  -with  me,  my  young  friend,  and  we  will  go  and  meet 
Herbert  and  Ellen."  Mr.  Howard  said,  smiling ;  "  a  walk  is 
the  best  remedy  for  nerves  fevered  as  yours  are  at  present, 
and  I  should  be  glad  of  your  company."  And  Edward,  with 
eager  pleasure,  banishing  all  traces  of  former  agitation,  de- 
parted, arm  in  arm  with  a  companion  whom  lie  still  so  revered 
ami  loved,  recalling  with  him  reminiscences  of  his  boyhood, 
and  detailing  with  animation  many  incidents  of  bis  late  trip. 
This  walk,  quiet  as  it  was,  was  productive,  both  to  Mr.  Howard 
and  his  pupil,  of  extreme  pleasure;  the  former,  while  he  re- 
tained all  the  gravity  and  dignity  of  his  holy  profession, 
knew  well  how  to  sympathize  with  youth.  Increased  duties 
in  the  ministry  had  caused  him  to  resign  the  school  which  he 
had  kept  when  we  first  knew  him,  to  the  extreme  regret  of 
both  master  and  pupils.  Mr.  Howard  regarded  young  peo- 
ple as  the  tender  lambs  of  his  fold,  whom  it  was  his  especial 
charge  to  train  up  in  the  paths  of  grace,  and  guard  from  all 
the  dangerous  and  hidden  pitfalls  of  sin  ;  their  parents  might 
neglect,  or,  ignorant  themselves,  pursue  a  mistaken  method, 
but  he  was  the  shepherd  placed  over  the  flock,  and  while  un- 
tiringly, zealously,  he  endeavored  to  lead  the  older  mem)  ers 
of  his  congregation  to  the  only  rock  of  salvation,  the  younger 
were  the  object  of  his  especial  care.  To  them  all  was  bright, 
the  world  in  its  dangerous,  because  more  pleasurable,  laby- 
rinths was  before  them.  He  saw,  he  knew  their  perfect  ignor- 
ance, and  he  trembled,  while  he  prayed  so  to  lead  them,  that 
the  lessons  of  their  minister  might  check  them  in.  the  career  of 
imprudence  or  of  sin. 

t;  We»  I  on;1  of  the  fathers  of  Rome.  I  should  say,  dene* 
dicite,  my  children."  he  said,  playfully,  as  Herbert  and  Ellen, 
apparently  in  serious  yet  happy  conversation  approached  and 
joined  them,  "but  as  I  am  merely  a  simple  minister  of  a  sim- 
ple faith.  I  greet  you  with  the  assurance  you  are  blessed  in 
your  charitable  office." 

"  And  how,  my  kind  friend,  could  you  discover  such  wag 
our  employment?"  replied  Herbert,  smiling.  '•  Can  my  mother 
have  been  betraying  us?" 

'•  Oh,  she  has  been  a  sad  traitress  this  morning,  betraying 
all  kinds  of  secrets  and  misdemeanors,"  said  Mr.  Howard, 
laughing,  and  casting  on  Ellen  a  glance  of  arch  meaning,  while 
Edward  could  scarcely  contain  his  impatience  to  seize  his  sis- 
ter's arm  and  bear  her  off  with  him. 

-  And  \rc,  too.  nave  been  hearing  many  tales  of  you,  Mr, 


276  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Howard,"  she  said.  "  We  have  heard  very  mai  y  blessings  on 
your  name  in  the  cottage  we  have  left,  although,  alas !  events 
Lave  occurred  there  of  a  very  painful  nature." 

"  And  why.  alas,  my  dear  child  ?"  said  Mr.  Howard,  affec- 
tionately. "'Do  you  deem  it  so  sad  a  thing  to  die?" 

"  It  is  wrong,  I  know,  to  regard  it  thus,  Mr.  Howard,"  re- 
plied Ellen  ;  "but  yet,  to  leave  all  those  we  love  on  earth,  to 
sever  the  tender  chords  of  affection  binding  us  unto  this  world, 
must  be.  even  to  the  strongest  and  most  pious  minds,  a  draught 
of  bitterness." 

'•  Do  not,  my  dear  children."  said  Mr.  Howard,  "  imagine  I 
deem  it  wrong  to  indulge  in  earthly  affections.  Far  from  it ; 
they  are  given  us  to  sweeten  life,  to  draw  our  hearts  in  thanks- 
giving to  Him  who  gave  them,  and  thus  indulged  are  pleasing 
unto  Him.  And  how  did  you  find  poor  Nanny  to-day?"  he 
added,  after  a  brief  pause. 

. "  Suffering  very  much  in  body,  but  in  a  blessed  state  of 
mind,"  replied  Ellen,  "which  she  greatly  attributed  to  you ; 
for  she  told  me,  before  my  aunt  discovered  them  and  placed 
them  where  they  now  are,  before  she  saw  you.  death  was  a 
trouble  awful  in  anticipation.  She  had  ever  tried  to  do  her 
duty  in  life,  to  remember  her  Maker  in  her  youth,  and  believed 
that  she  had  succeeded  ;  but  when  she  kijew  that  she  must  die, 
all  appeared  changed ;  the  aspect  of  death  was  different  when 
seemingly  .at  a  distance,  to  that  which  it  presented  when  near 
f.t  hand.  She  longed  for  some  minister  of  the  Lord  to  pray 
for  her,  to  comfort  her  in  those  moments  when  suffering  pre- 
vented serious  thoughts,  and  it  was  affecting  to  hea  .ier  blesg 
that  charity  which  had  not  only  placed  her  soul  ander  your 
guidance,  but  provided  also  so  many  bodily  comforts." 

';  And  you  have  been  exercising  the  duties  of  the  ministry 
before  you  have  donned  your  gown,  my  dear  Herbert,"  said 
Mr.  Howard,  glancing  approvingly  on  his  young  friend.  "  Glad 
indeed  shall  I  be  to  hail  you  as  a  young  brother  in  my  sacred 
office ;  for  with  you  it  will  be  indeed  the  service  of  the  heart, 
and  not  of  interest  or  compulsion.  Would  that  your  friend 
Arthur  possessed  one-half  of  your  earnest  zeal,  or  that  you 
could  inspire  him  with  the  same  love  for  his  sacred  calling 
which  animates  you." 

t;  I  know  not  what  to  make  of  Arthur,"  said  Herbert,  some- 
what sadly  ;"  he  is  strangely,  unaccountably  changed  the  last 
few  months.  When  he  was  first  settled  in  his  curacy,  his  con- 
duct was  such  as  to  excite  the  approbation  of  both  my  father 


THE   MOTHER'S   RECOMPENSE.  277 

and  yourself ;  and  now,  I  greatly  fear,  that  he  is  alienating 
both." 

"  Do  not  condemn  him  harshly,  without  good  proof,  dear 
Mr.  Howard,"  said  Ellen,  earnestly.  "  I,.too,  have  noticed  that 
he  ii«  changed,  though  I  scarcely  know  in  what  manner ;  but 
for  his  fathers  sake  and  for  mine,  do  not  treat  him  coldly  be- 
fore my  uncle  at  least.  He  has  many  faults,  but  surely  some 
good  qualities." 

11  i  trust  he  has  ;  but  I  wish  he  would  not  so  carefully  con- 
ceal them,  and  suffer  his  parishioners  to  have  cause  to  relate 
so  many  tales  of  neglect  and  levity  in  their  curate,"  replied  Mr. 
Howard;  "but  we  will  not  bring  forward  accusations  when  the 
accused  is  not  present  to  defend  himself:  and  here  we  are  at 
the  Rectory  before  I"  thought  we  were  half  way.  Will  you 
come  in,  my  young  friends,  and  share  an  old  man's  homely 
luncheon  ?" 

Gladly  would  they  have  done  so,  but  Ellen  had  promised 
to  return  to  Oakwood  in  time  for  that  meal,  and  was  compelled 
to  refuse;  adding,  that  both  her  brother  and  cousin  might,  for 
the  Rectory  was  so  ne\r  one  of  the  entrances  to  the  park,  she 
could  easily  return  alone  ;  but  such  was  not  Mr.  Howard's  in- 
tention. He  knew  how  Edward  longed  for  a  few  minutes'  pri- 
vate conversation  with  his  sister,  and  playfully  detaining  Her- 
bert, declaring  he  could  not  do  without  one  at  least,  dismissed 
the  orphans  on  their  walk,  bestowing  his  parting  blessing  on 
Ellen  with  a  warmth  that  surprised  her  at  the  time,  but  the 
meaning  of  which  was  fully  explained  in  the  interesting  con- 
versation that  passed  between  her  and  her  brother  ere  they 
reached  the  house,  and  as  the  expression  of  approbation  in  the 
minister  she  lo^ed,  filled  her  young  mind  with  joy.  while  the 
mutual  confidence  bestowed, in  that  walk  added  another  bright 
link  to  the  chain  of  affection  which  bound  the  souls  of  that 
brother  and  sister  so  fondly  together. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IT  was  the  hour  when  all  in  general  retired  to  rest,  and  the 
inmates  of  Oakwood  had  dispersed  for  the  purpose ;  but  this 
night  thoughts  of  a  mingled  and  contending  nature  occupied 
Mrs.  Hamilton's  mind,  and  prevented  all  wish  for  sleep.  Her 
guests  had  the  last  week  increased,  and  the  part  of  hostess  had 
been  kindly  and  pleasingly  performed  ;  but  the  whole  of  that 


278  THE  MOTHER/S  RECOMPENSE. 

day  she  had  longed  to  be  alone,  and  gladly,  gratefully  she 
hailed  that  hour  which  enabled  her  to  be  so.  Shading  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  she  gave  to  her  thoughts  the  dominion 
they  demanded.  Maternal  ambition,  maternal  pride,  in  that 
silent  hour  fell  before  the  stronger,  more  absorbing  power  of 
maternal  love.  But  a  few  brief  hours,  and  the  child  of  her 
anxious  cares,  of  fervent  petitions  at  the  throne  of  grace,  would 
be  no  longer  an  inmate  of  her  father's  house,  her  place  in  that 
happy  home  would  be  a  void.  On  the  morrow,  a}-,  the  mor- 
row, for  the  intervening  weeks  had  fled,  her  child  would  be 
another's.  True,  but  few  miles  would  separate  their  homes; 
true,  that  he  on  whom  that  precious  gift  would  be  bestowed, 
was  in  all  respects  the  husband  she  would  have  selected  for 
her  Caroline,  the  husband  for  whom  the  Involuntary  prayer  had 
arisen  ;  virtue  and  piety,  manliness  and  sincerity  were  his  ; 
besides  these  attributes,  which  to  some  mothers  would  have 
been  far  more  brilliant,  he  was  noble,  even  of  exalted  rank  ; 
but  all,  all  these  things  were  forgotten  in  the  recollection,  that 
on  the  morrow  she  must  bid  farewell  to  her  cherished  treasure, 
the  link,  the  precious  link  of  protection  would  be  severed,  and 
for  ever.  Thoughts  of  the  past  mingled  .with  the  present,  and 
softened  yet  more  that  fond  mother's  feelings.  Pain,  bitter 
pain,  Caroline  had  sometimes  cost  her.  but  pleasure,  exquisite 
in  its  kind,  had  mingled  with  it.  No  longer  would  it  be  hers 
to  watch  with  trembling  joy  the  dawning  virtues  which  had 
flourished  beneath  her  eye ;  a  link  would  be  broken  between 
them,  a  slender  one  indeed,  but  still  broken — though  Mrs. 
Hamilton  reproached  herself  for  indulging  in  such  feelings  of 
Badness,  when  Sv,  many  blessings  promised  to  gild  the  lot  of 
her  child.  And  yet,  alas !  what  mother  devoted  to  her 
children  as  she  had  been,  as  still  was  this  noble  and  gentle 
woman,  could  part  from  a  beloved  one,  even  for  a  brief  space, 
ever  for  happiness,  without  one  pang,  selfish  as  it  might  be, 
selfish  as  perhaps  it  was?  for  anxiety  for  the  future  darkened 
not.  the  prospects  of  earthly  bliss,  her  trust  in  the  character  of 
St.  Eval  was  too  confiding  ;  it  was  only  her  fond  heart  which 
for  a  time,  would  be  so  desolate.  Her  ear  would  linger  in  vain 
for  the  voio«  it  loved  ;  her  eye  seek  in  sorrow  for  the  graceful 
form,  the  beauteous  features  on  which  it  had  so  loved  to  gaze. 
New  ties  would  supply  to  Caroline  the  place  of  all  that  she 
had  left;  deey  springs  of  fond  emotions. such  as  she  had  never 
felt  before,  would  open  in  her  heart,  and  then  would  she  still 
love,  would  sUi*  *till  look  to  that  mother,  as  in  childhood  and 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  279 

in  youth  she  had  done  ?  Vainly  she  struggled  to  subdue 
these  thoughts,  and  bring  forward  in  their  stead  the  visions  of 
happiness,  which  alone  had  visited  her  before.  Thronging 
and  tumultuously  they  came,  and  tears  stole  slowly  from  those 
mild  eyes,  which  for  herself  so  seldom  wept ;  while  engrossed 
in  her  own  reflections,  she  heard  not  the  soft  and  careful 
opening  of  her  door,  she  knew  not  that  the  beloved  object  of 
those  tears  had  entered  her  room,  and  was  kneeling  beside  her. 
"Mother!"  murmured  Caroline,  in  a  voice  tremulous  and 
weak  with  emotion  equal  to  her  own.  Mrs.  Hamilton  started 
and  her  lip  quivered  with  the  effort  she  made  to  smile  her 
greeting.  "  Mother,  my  own  mother,  forgive  my  intrusion  ;  I 
thought  not  to  have  found  you  thus.  Oh,  deem  me  not 
failing  in  that  deep  reverence  your  goodness,  your  devoted- 
ness,  have  taught  me  to  feel  for  you  ;  if  my  love  would  bid  me 
ask  you  why  you  weep,  may  I  not  share  your  sorrow,  mother?" 
'•  These  are  but  selfish  tears,  my  own ;  selfish,  for  they  fall 
only  when  I  think  that  to-morrow  bears  my  Caroline  away. 
and  leaves  her  mother's  heart  for  a  time  so  lone  and  sad,  that 
it  will  not  even  think  of  the  happiness  I  so  fondly  trust  will  be 
hers,  in  becoming  the  bride  of  him  she  loves.  Forgive  me,  my 
own  Caroline ;  I  had  no  right  to  weep  and  call  for  these  denr 
signs  of  sympathy  at  such  a  time." 

Silently  and  tearfully  Caroline  clung  to  her  mother,  and 
repeatedly  pressed  her  hand  to  her  lips. 

u  And  why  are  you  not  at  rest,  my  child  ?  you  will  have 
but  few  brief  hours  for  sleep,  scarcely  sufficient  to  recall  the 
truant  rose  to  these  pale  cheeks,  and  the  lustre  to  t:iia 
suddenly  dimmed  eye.  my  Caroline ;"  and  the  mother  passed 
her  hand  caressingly  over  her  brow,  and  parted  the  luxuriant 
hair  that,  loosened  from  the  confining  wreath  of  wild  flowers 
which  had  so  lately  adorned  it,  hung  carelessly  around  her. 
She  looked  long  and  wistfully  on  that  young  bright  face. 

"  You  ask  me  why  I  am  not  at  rest ;  oh,  I  could  not,  I  felt 
I  could  not  part  from  you,  without  imploring  your  forgiveness 
for  all  the  past ;  without  feeling  that  it  was  indeed  pardoned. 
Never,  never  before  has  my  conduct  appeared  in  such  true 
colors ;  dark,  even  to  blackness,  when  contrasted  with  yours. 
Your  blessing  is  my  own.  it  will  be  mine  to-morrow ;  but,  oh, 
it  will  not  be  hallowed  to  my  heart,  did  I  not  confess  that  I 
was — that  I  am  unworthy  of  all  your  fondness,  mother,  and 
implore  you  to  forgive  the  pain  I  have  so  often  and  so  wantonly 
inflicted  upon  you.  Oh,  you  know  not  how  bitterly,  how 


280  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

reproachfully,  my  faults  and  errors  rushed  back  to  my  mind^ 
as  I  sat  and  thought  this  was  the  last  night  that  Caroline 
Hamilton  would  sleep  beneath  this  roof;  that  to-morrow  we 
parted,  and  I  left  you  without  once  acknowledging  I  deserved 
not  half  your  goodness  ;  without  one  effort  to  express  tne  de- 
voted gratitude,  the  deep,  the  reverential  love,  with  wnich  my 
heart  is  filled.  Mother,  dearest,  dearest  mother !  on,  call  me 
but  your  blessing,  your  comfort, — I  never  have  been  thus ; 
wilful  and  disobedient,  I  have  poisoned  many  hours  wtiich 
would  otherwise  have  been  sweet.  Mother,  my  own  mother, 
say  only  you  forgive  me — say  that  no  lingering  pang  on  my 
account  remains." 

"  Forgive  you,  my  beloved  !  oh,  'cog,  long  since  have  every 
childish  fault  and  youthful  error  been  iorgiven.  Could  resent- 
ment harbor  in  my  heart  so  long?  could  memory  linger  on. 
moments  of  pain,  when  this  last  year  not  one  fault,  not  one 
failing  of  duty  or  of  love  has  stained  your  conduct?  Even  as 
my  other  children  have  you  been  my  blessing,  my  comfort ; 
the  dearer,  when  I  thought  on  the  doubts  and  fears  of  the 
past.  Pain  you  may  have  once  caused  me  ;  but,  oh,  you  know 
not  how  blessedly  one  proof  of  affection,  one  hour  of  devotion 
in'a  child  can  obliterate  from  a  mother's  heart  the  remem- 
brance of  months  of  pain.  Think  no  more  of  what  is  past,  my 
own  ;  remember  only  that  your  mother's  blessing,  her  fervent 
prayers  will  hover  round  you  wherever  you  may  be ;  that, 
should  sickness  and  sorrow  at  any  time  be  your  portion,  how- 
ever distant  we  may  be,  your  mother  will  come  to  soothe  and 
cheer,  your  mother's  bosom  will  still  be  open  to  receive  you  " 

Caroline  answered  not,  for  her  tears  fell  fast  upon  the 
hand  she  held ;  tears,  not  of  sorrow  but  of  emotion,  blessed  iu 
their  sadness.  She  bowed  her  head  before  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
and  murmured — 

"  Bless  me,  my  mother  !" 

"  May  the  God  of  infinite  love,  the  Father  of  unclouded 
mercies,  who  hath  been  so  unchangeably  merciful  to  his  ser- 
vant, look  down  from  His  resplendent  throne,  and  bless  you, 
my  beloved  !  May  he  sanctify  and  bless  that  event,  which 
promises  to  our  darkened  eyes  so  much  felicity !  May  He 
guide  my  child  in  His  own  paths,  and  hearken  to  her  mother's 
prayer !" 

"  We  will  not  separate  this  night  to  pray  each  in  solihide, 
my  child ;  let  us  read,  and  address  our  heavenly  Father  to- 
gether, as  we  were  wont  to  do,  when  it  was  my  task  to  raisa 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  28' 

your  infant  thoughts  and  simple  prayers  to  Him  who  heard 
and  answered.  I  cannot  part  from  you  till  these  agitated  feel« 
ings  are  more  composed,  and  prayer  will  best  enable  them  to 
be  so." 

Willingly,  gladly  Caroline  lingered,  and  their  private  devo- 
tions, which  ever  attended  their  retiring  to  rest,  were  perform- 
ed together.  Their  blessed  influence  was  mutually  felt.  He 
whom  they  so  fervently  addressed  looked  down  upon  His  good 
and  faithful  servants,  and  poured  upon  the  mother's  soul  and 
on  that  of  her  child  the  calm  and  tranquillizing  dew  of  His 
blessing. 

The  morning  dawned,  and  commonplace  as  is  the  expres- 
sion, yet  we  must  confess  the  day  was  lovely;  one  of  those 
soft,  delicious  September  days  so  well  known  to  all  who  are 
acquainted  with  the  climate  of  Devonshire.  Gayly  the  sun 
looked  down  from  his  field  of  stainless  azure,  and  peeped 
through  the  windows  of  the  elegant  little  room  which  the  taste 
of  her  young  bridemaids  had  decorated  as  Caroline's  tiring- 
room  for  the  day,  and  his  bright  rays  played  on  the  rich  jewels 
scattered  on  the  toilette,  and  decked  them  with  renewed  bril- 
liance; and  at  times  his  light  would  fall  full  upon  the  counte- 
nance of  the  young  bride,  sometimes  pensive,  at  others,  radiant 
in  beaming  smiles,  as  she  replied  to  the  kind  words  of  Lady 
Gertrude,  or  in  answer  to  the  playful  conversation  of  her 
younger  bridemaids,  who,  full  of  life,  and  hope,  and  innocence, 
hovered  like  fairy  spirits  round  their  Queen.  The  tears  which 
had  fallen  from  the  eyes  of  Emmeline  on  her  sister's  neck 
that  morning  were  dried,  yet  still  there  were  some  lingering 
traces  of  sadness  on  her  fair  sweet  face,  which  she  struggled 
vainly  to  conceal,  but  which  were  regarded  as  the  sorrow  of  an 
affection;) te  heart  thus  parting  from  the  sister  of  its  love 

And  Lilla  Grahame,  too,  was  there,  smiling  with  real  and 
heartfelt  pleasure.  She  had  observed  the  slight  cloud  on  Em- 
melinc's  brow,  and  with  every  affectionate  art  endeavored  to 
remove  it. 

•The  toilette  of  the  bride  was  complete  1,  save  her  jewels, 
which  Ellen  had  entreated  might  be  her  office  to  arrange, 
and.  smilingly.  Lady  Florence  resigned  her  place  by  Caroline's 
side. 

"  For  Edward's  sake  and  for  mine,  dearest  Caroline,  will 
you.  decked  as  you  are  with  jewels  so  far  more  precious,  yet 
will  you  wear  this,  and  regard  it  indeed  as  the  offering  of  the 
Bincerest  affection  for  yourself,  the  warmest  prayers  for  your 


282  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

welfare,  from  those  wlio  for  so  many  years  have  felt  for  you 
as  if  you  were  indeed  their  sister  ?  poor  as  is  the  gift,  will  you 
let  Edward  see  it  is  not  rejected  ?"  and  Ellen,  as  with  a  flushed 
cheek  and  quivering  lip  she  spoke,  placed  on  the  arm  of  her 
cousin  a  bracelet,  composed  of  her  own  and  her  brother  s  hair, 
and  clasped  with  chaste  yet  massive  gold.  The  braid  was  fine 
anJ  delicate,  while  the  striking  contrast  of  the  jet  black  and 
rich  golden  hair  of  which  it  was  composed,  combined  with  its 
valuable  clasp,  rendered  it  not  an  unfit  offering  on  such  a  day. 

"Is  it  to  remind  me  of  all  my  unkindness  towards  you, 
Ellen,  in  days  past,  of  my  hour  of  pride?"  replied  Caroline, 
in  a  low  voice,  as  she  threw  her  arm  caressingly  around  her 
cousin,  and  fondly  kissed  her.  "I  will  accept  your  gift,  my 
dear  Ellen,  and  sometimes  look  upon  it  thus." 

"  Nay,  do  not  say  so.  dearest  Caroline,  or  I  shall  feel  In- 
clined to  take  it  even  now  from  your  arm.  and  never  let  you 
see  it  more:  no,  rather  let  it  be  a  remembrance  of  those  poor 
orphans,  whose  lives  you  have  not  done  the  least  to  render 
happy  Gratefully,  affectionately,  shall  we  ever  think  of  you, 
dear  Caroline,  and,  oh,  may  this  little  offering  bid  you  some- 
times think  thus,  and  thus  only  of  us." 

The  carriages  were  rather  later  than  expected,  and  Lady 
Gertrude  observing  Caroline  somewhat  pale,  though  no  ether 
sign  denoted  agitation,  endeavored,  by  talking  more  sportively 
than  usually  was  her  wont,  to  while  away  the  time  till  the  im- 
portant moment  arrived. 

It  came  at  length,  and  Caroline,  with  a  faltering  step,  en 
tared  the  carriage  which  conveyed  her  to  the  old  and  venera 
ble  church,  accompanied  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Lady 
Gertrude,  who  had  promised  to  remain  near  her.  The  fair 
girls  that  held  the  rank  of  bridemaids  followed,  and  three 
other  carriages  contained  the  invited  guests  to  the  wedding. 
Not  a  creature  was  visible  to  disturb  by  acclamations  the  bri- 
dal part,-  on  their  route,  and  take  from  the  calm  and  holy 
beauty  of  the  early  morning ;  but  that  the  day  ^as  remem- 
bered was  clearly  visible,  for  there  wore  garlands  of  the 
brightest,  fairest  flowers,  which  must,  by  their  number  and  va- 
riety, have  been  culled  from  many  gardens  of  many  villages, 
festooning  the  hedges  of  the  green  lanes  through  which  they 
passed  ;  and  many  a  gay  pennon  pendent  from  oak  or  stately 
elm,  fluttered  in  the  breeze.  All  was  so  still  and  calm,  thae 
ere  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  church  porch,  Caroline  had 
conquered  the  inward  trembling  of  her  frame,  and  her  heart 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  283 

thrilled  not  perhaps  so  anxiously  as  did  both  her  parents', 
when,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  proud  and  happy  father,  sho 
walked  steadily,  even  with  dignity,  up  the  church,  where  Mr. 
Howard,  young  Myrvin,  Lord  St  Eval,  his  parents,  Lord 
Louis.  Percy,  Herbert,  and  Edward  there  stood,  and  a  faint 
but  expressive  smile  played  round  her  lips,  in  answer  to  St. 
Eval's  eager  yet  silent  greeting.  He  could  not  speak,  his 
feelings  of  happiness  were  too  deep,  too  ecstatic  for  words,  but 
she  had  but  to  look  on  his  expressive  face,  and  all,  all  was 
Baid. 

There  was  a  moment's  solemn  pause  as  they  knelt  beside 
the  altar,  and  then  the  voice  of  Mr.  Howard  sounded,  and  its 
ever  emphatic  tones  rung  with  even  more  than  its  usual  so- 
lemnity on  the  ears  of  all  the  assembled  relatives  and  friends, 
with  thrilling  power  on  the  brido  and  bridegroom.  Calmly 
and  clearly  Caroline  responded ;  her  cheek  was  pale,  but  her 
lip  quivered  not,  and  perhaps,  in  that  impressive  service,  the 
agitation  of  her  mother  was  deeper  than  her  own.  She  strug- 
gled to  retain  her  composure,  she  lifted  up  her  soul  in  earnest 
prayer,  that  the  blessing  of  her  God  might  indeed  hallow  the 
ceremony  on  which  she  gazed;  and  ere  her  child  arose,  and  led 
forward  by  her  young  enraptured  husband,  approached  for  her 
parent's  blessing  and  embrace,  she  was  enabled  to  give  both 
without  any  visible  emotion,  save  that  her  daughter  might 
have  felt  the  quick  pulsations  of  her  fond  heart,  as  she  pressed 
h?r  in  her  arms. 

We  will  not  linger  on  the  joyous  festivity  which  pervaded 
the  lordly  halls  of  Oakwood  on  this  eventful  day. 

The  huur  had  come  when  Caroline,  the  young  Countess  of 
St.  Eval,  bade  farewell  to  her  paternal  home.  The  nearest 
relatives  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom  had  assembled  with 
them  in  a  small  apartment,  at  Caroline's  request,  for  a  few 
minutes,  till  the  carriage  was  announced,  for  though  resolved 
not  to  betray  her  feelings,  she  could  not  bear  to  part  from 
those  she  loved  in  public.  She  had  changed  her  dress  for  a 
simple  yet  elegant  travelling  costume,  and  was  now  listening 
with  respectful  deference  but  glistening  eyes  to  the  fond  words 
of  her  mother,  who,  twining  her  arm  around  her,  had  drawn 
her  a  little  apart  from  the  others,  as  if  her  farewell  could  not 
be  spoken  aloud  ;  their  attention  was  so  arrested  by  a  remark 
of  Lord  Malvern,  and  his  son's  reply,  that  they  turned  towards 
them. 

"  Do  not  again  let  me  hear  you  say  our  Gertrude  never 


284  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

looks  animated  or  interested,"  the  former  said,  addressing  the 
Marchioness,  somewhat  triumphantly.  "  She  is  as  happy,  per- 
haps, if  possible,  even  happier  than  ar.y  of  us  to-day,  and,  like 
a  good  girl,  she  shows  it.  Gertrude,  love,  is  it  your  brother's 
happiness  reflected  upon  you  ?" 

'•  Let  me  answer  for  her,  sir,"  replied  St.  Eval,  eagerly, 
"  You  know  not  why  she  has  so  much  reason  to  look,  and,  I 
trust,  to  feel  happy.  She  sees  her  own  good  work,  and  noble, 
virtuous  as  she  is,  rejoices  in  it ;  without  her,  this  day  would 
never  have  dawned  for  me,  Caroline  would  never  have  been 
mine,  and  both  would  have  lived  in  solitary  wretchedness, 
Yes,  dearest  Gertrude,"  he  continued,  "I  feel  how  much  I 
owe  you,  though  I  say  but  little.  Happy  would  it  be  for 
every  man,  could  he  receive  from  his  sister  the  comfort,  the 
blessing  I  have  from  mine,  and  for  every  woman,  were  her 
counsels,  like  yours,  guided  by  truth  alone." 

"  The  Earl  and  Countess  of  St.  Eval  left  Oakwood  about 
two  o'clock,  for  their  estate  in  Cornwall,  Castle  Terryn,  in  an 
elegant  chariot  and  four  superb  grays,  leaving  a  large  party 
of  fashionable  friends  and  relations  to  lament  their  early 
departure."  So  spoke  the  fashionable  chronicle  in  a  para- 
graph on  this  marriage  in  high  life,  which  contained  items  and 
descriptions  longer  and  more  graphic  than  we  have  any  incli- 
nation to  transcribe. 

A  select  party  of  the  Marquis  of  Malvern's  and  Mr.  Ham- 
ilton's friends  remained  to  dinner,  and,  at  the  request  of 
Percy  and  Lord  Louis,  dancing  for  the  younger  guests  con 
eluded  the  evening.  The  day  had  dawned  in  joy,  and  no 
clouds  disturbed  its  close.  Fatigued,  and  her  thoughts  still 
clinging  *o  her  child,  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  glad  to  seek  the 
retirement  of  her  own  room.  Her  thoughts  turned  on  her 
Caroline,  and  so  fondly  did  they  linger  there,  that  Emmeline'a 
strange  diversity  of  wild  spirits  and  sudden  but  overpowering 
gloom  did  not  occupy  her  mind  as  powerfully  as  they  would 
otherwise  have  done ;  she  did  not  regard  them,  save  as  tbe 
eifects  of  excitement  natural  to  such  an  eventful  day  ;  sh* 
guessed  not  that  of  all  her  household,  the  heart  of  her  Emme- 
line  was  the  heaviest,  her  spirits  weighed  down  by  a  gloom  so 
desponding,  so  overwhelming,  that  sleep  for  many  hours  fled 
from  her  eyes.  'She  had  powerfully  exerted  herself  during  the 
day.  and  now  in  solitude,  darkness,  and  silence,  the  reflux  of 
fading  was  too  violent  for  that  young  and,  till  lately,  thought- 
lessly joyous  heart  to  bear.  Her  heavy  eyes  and  pallid  cheeks 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  285 

attracted  notice  indeed  the  following  morning,  but  they  were 
attributed  to  fatigue  from  the  gay  vigils  of  the  preceding 
night,  and  gladly  did  the  poor  girl  herself  encourage  the 
delusion,  and  obey  her  mother's  playful  command  to  lie  down 
for  a  few  hours,  as  a  punishment  for  indulging  an  overplus  of 
excitement. 

Herbert's  pleasure,  too,  the  preceding  day  had  been  alloyed 
by  anxiety;  and  perhaps  his  solicitude  and  his  sister's  sorrow 
proceeded  from  one  and  the  same  cause,  which  our  readers  will 
find  at  length,  a  few  pages  hence,  when  Arthur  Myrvin  becomes 
a  prominent  object  in  our  history. 

Pleasure,  in  a  variety  of  festive  shapes,  but  innocent  in  all, 
was  for  the  next  month  the  presiding  genius  of  Oakwood  and 
its  vicinity.  Lord  Malvern's  family  remained  as  guests  at 
Oakwood  during  that  time,  and  some  few  college  friends  of 
Percy  and  Herbert;  but  Mr.  Hamilton's  other  friends 
departed  for  their  respective  homes  the  week  following  the 
marriage. 

The  young  Earl  and  Countess  of  St.  Eval  meanwhile 
resided  at  their  beautiful  retreat  of  Castle  Terryn,  which  the 
taste  of  the  young  Earl  had  rendered  in  every  respect  a  resi- 
dence suited  to  the  rank  and  feelings -of  those  who  claimed  it 
as- their  own. 

Nothing  now  prevented  our  young  friend  Ellen  from 
joining  in  the  amusements  that  offered  themselves,  and  she 
enjoyed  them  even  more  than  she  had  expected,  for  she  was 
accompanied  by  her  brother,  who  had  deservedly  become  a 
universal  favorite,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  the  pleasure,  at 
length,  of  seeing  not  only  health  but  happiness  beaming 
apparently  unclouded  on  the  countenance  of  her  niece. 

Mr.  Grahame,  for  the  sake  of  Lilla,  who  was  becoming 
dearer  each  day  to  both  her  parents,  for  her  true  character  for 
the  first  time  stood  clearly  forth,  struggled  with  his  gloom, 
and  accompanied  her  wherever  her  wishes  led ;  and  her 
cheerful  spirits,  her  unpretending  manners,  and  constant  and 
active  affection,  manifesting  itself  in  a  thousand  different  ways, 
to  amuse  the  couch  of  her  now  really  ailing  mother,  did  much 
to  palliate  the  disappointment  and  misery  the  conduct  of  his 
elder  daughter  had  occasioned. 

Herbert's  secret  was  still  inviolably  kept ;  no  one  suspected 
that  lie  loved,  much  less 'that  he  was  betrothed  Nearly  two 
y<*irs  had  passed  of  that  long  period  which  must  elapse  ere 
Herbert  could  hope  to  make  Mary  his  wife.  They  had  glided 


286  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

quickly,  very  quickly  by,  and  so  too  might  the  remainder  ;  but 
there  was  a  dark,  foreboding  feeling  pressing  heavily  upon 
Herbert's  heart,  as  he  looked  forward,  that  robbed  anticipation 
of  its  charm,  and  rendered  him  even  more  pensive  than  from 
his  boyhood  had  been  his  wont.  To  strangers,  even  to  his 
family,  he  was  still  the  same;  to  his  God  alone,  he  laid  hia 
spirit  bare. 

Six  weeks  after  the  marriage  of  Caroline,  Oakwood  and  its 
neighborhood  was  as  quiet  as  it  had  been  when  we  knew  it  in 
former  years. 

Lord  Malvern's  family  stayed  ten  days  at  Castle  Terryn, 
by  the  pressing  invitation  of  the  young  couple,  and  then  re 
turned  to  their  estate- in  Dorsetshire,  leaving  Lady  Gertrude, 
however,  for  a  few  weeks'  longer  residence  with  her  brother 
and  his  wife.  The  young  men  returned  to  college.  Lilla  Gra- 
hame  remained  at  home  till  after  the  Christmas  vacation, 
when  she  was  once  more  to  reside  with  Mrs.  Douglas  for  six 
months  or  a  year  longer,  according  to  the  state  of  her  mo- 
ther's health,  who  no  longer  wished  to  quit  Woodlands ;  and 
therefore  her  husband  gladly  consented  to  her  remaining  there 
till  Mrs.  Hamilton  paid  her  annual  visit  to  London.  About 
this  time  also,  Ellen,  accompanied  by  her  brother,  fulfilled  her 
promise  of  visiting  her  old  friend,  Mr.  Myrvin,  and  delighted 
him  by  making  his  pretty  vicarage  her  residence  till  near  the 
middle  of  November.  Edward,  with  whom  the  kind  old  man 
was  as  much  pleased  as  he  had  been  with  his  sister,  also  re- 
mained at  Llangwillan  during  that  time,  with  the  exception 
of  three  or  four  flying  visits  to  Oakwood.  and  latterly  to  Cas- 
tle Terryn,  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  with  Emmeliue, 
were  staying  the  few  last  weeks  of  his  and  hi?  sister's  visit  at 
the  vicarage.  Their  company  was  particularly  soothing  to 
Mr.  Myrvin  at  this  period ;  for  the  letters  of  his  son  were 
causing  him  extreme  solicitude,  revealing  intentions,  to  under- 
stand which  we  must  for  a  short  period  retrace  our  steps,  and 
thus  commence  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

YOUNG  MYRVIN  had  been,  at  the  period  of  Caroline's  mar 
riage,  rather  more  than  a  year  as  Mr.  Howard's  curate.  Af 
first,  as  we  have  seen,  the  example  of  Herbert  had  done  mucb 
towards  reconciling  him  to  a  profession,  -which  was  for  manj 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  287 

reasons  opposed  to  his  feelings.  When  in  the  company  of  hig 
friend,  he  bad  imparted  to  him  his  struggles  with  the  pride 
and  ambition  which  still  lurked  within  him,  spite  of  all  his  en- 
deavors and  resolutions  to  conquer  and  banish  them.  While 
Herbert  was  near  him  all  was  well ;  his  duty  was  regularly 
performed,  in  a  manner  that  satisfied  his  rector,  and  suffi- 
ciently rewarded  Mr.  Hamilton  for  the  interest  he  had  taken 
in  his  and  his  father's  welfare  ;  but  when  Herbert  left  Oak- 
wood,  Arthur's  distaste  for  his  occupation  returned  with  re- 
newed strength,  to  which  newly-dawned  emotions  added 
weight.  Most  painfully  had  Arthur,  when  first  intimate  with 
Mr.  Hamilton,  endeavored  to  guard  himself  from  the  danger 
to  his  peace,  which  he  felt  existed  in  the  society  of  beings  so 
amiable  and  attractive  as  were  his  daughters  ;  but  his  efforts 
were  vain,  as  our  readers  may  have  already  discovered.  There 
was  a  nameless,  an  indescribable  charm  in  the  appearance  and 
manner  of  Emmeline  which  he  could  not  resist.  It  was  some 
few  months  ere  the  whole  extent  of  evil  was  discovered,  not, 
perhaps,  entirely  till  Emmeline  returned  to  London,  and  Oak- 
wood  was  desolate,  painfully  desolate  to  the  young  man,  who, 
when  lingering  within  its  ancient  walls,  forgot  every  thing 
around  him,  save  the  bright  and  beautiful  being  who  was  to 
him  its  charm.  When,  however,  that  fair  form  had  departed 
from  his  sight,  he  was  awakened  to  the  delusive  nature  of  his 
hopes,  and  with  the  knowledge,  exquisite  even  in  its  despair, 
that  he  loved  Emmeline  Hamilton,  his  profession  became  more 
and  more  distasteful.  Had  he  followed  the  paths  of  ambition, 
a.«  his  inclination  prompted,  had  he  but  had  the  means  of  seek- 
ing some  station  whence  he  might  at  length  have  risen  to  emi- 
nence, he  cared  not  what  the  obstacles,  his  union  with  her 
might  not  have  been  so  difficult  to  overcome,  or,  at  least,  he' 
might  not  have  met  her  ;  and  did  he  wish  that  such  had  been 
the  case?  no;  misery  in  its  most  agonizing  shape  stood  before 
him,  and  yet  the  cause  of  that  misery  was  the  one  bright  star 
that  appeared  to  gild  his  lot. 

A  poor  curate  of  a  country  parish,  with  no  resources  but  his 
salary  to  increase  his  scanty  meals,  no  power  of  rendering  him- 
self of  conesquence  in  the  eyes  of  the  world;  and,  alas  !  the 
fruit  of  many  years'  hard  labor  from  father  to  son — one-half  of 
which  might  have  rendered  him  sufficiently  independent  to  have 
chosen  his  own  profession — was  gone.  Poor  as  he  was,  could 
he  ever  look  forward  to  possess  the  hand  of  Emmeline?  ho  felt 
the  utter  impossibility,  and  bitterly  he  knew  he  loved  but  to 


288  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

despair.  These  contending  feelings  diverted  his  thoughts  as 
may  well  be  supposed,  and  caused  him  to  be  careless  in  the  dis- 
charge of  his  clerical  duties,  abrupt  and  strange  in  his  manner 
with  Mr.  Howard;  and  unfortunately  there  was  one  in  the  vil- 
lage who  was  read}r  to  turn  the  simplest  circumstance  to  the 
young  curate's  disadvantage. 

It  was  hot  likely  the  sinful  and  licentious  man  who,  by  Mr. 
Hamilton's  active  exertions,  had  not  only  been  dispossessed  of 
the  living  of  Llangwillan.  but  very  nearly  of  his  gown  also. 
would  permit  these,  what  he  termed  injuries,  to  pass  unavenged. 
Against  the  elder  Myrvin  he  felt  his  efforts  would  be  unavail- 
ing, nor  did  he  feel  inclined  to  try  a  second  time,  when  he  had 
once  been  foiled ;  but  Arthur  he  believed  a  surer  mark.  A 
farm  of  some  consequence  was  to  be  let  on  Mr.  Hamilton's  es- 
tate ;  it  was  very  easy  to  settle  in  it  a  man  lower  in  rank,  but 
hard,  unrelenting  as  himself,  an  unprincipled  instrument  of  his 
will.  The  business  was  done,  and  the  new  neighbor,  prepos- 
sessing in  appearance  and  manners,  speedily  ingratiated  him- 
self with  all,  and  even  obtained,  by  a  semblance  of  hard-work- 
ing industry,  and  regular  attendance  at  public  worship,  second- 
ed by  quiet  and  unobtrusive  conduct,  the  notice  and  regard  of 
his  landlord,  Mr.  Hamilton.  . 

This  man  had  entered  his  farm  about  four  or  five  months 
after  Arthur  had  been  installed  as  Mr.  Howard's  curate,  and 
cautiously  and  yet  successfully  he  executed  the  wily  require- 
ments of  his  employer.  So  guardedly  did  he  work,  that  no  one 
could  trace  to  him,  who  ever  spoke  as  the  friend  of  their  cu- 
rate, the  prejudice  which  had  slowly  but  surely  penetrated  the 
mind  of  every  man  against  him,  and  interpreted  the  simplest 
action  in  the  worst  light.  There  were  some  rumors  afloat  of 
misdemeanors  during  his  college  life;  it  mattered  not  whether 
they  were  true  or  false,  they  were  received  and  encouraged  by 
the  credulous.  He  was  a  Welshman  too,  full  of  evil  qualities, 
and  clothed  with  invulnerable  pride,  which  last  idea  was  unfor- 
tunately confirmed  by  Myrvin's  distaste  for  his  profession, 
which  prevented  his  entering  into  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  his 
parishioners,  mingling  familiarly  and  kindly  with  them  as  a 
minister  of  God  should  do. 

How  or  when  this  prejudice  began,  or  what  was  its  origin, 
not  one  of  the  good  folks  of  the  village  could  have  told,  for  they 
really  did  not  know  ;  but  still  it  existed,  and  Arthur  knew  it. 
He  felt  himself  disliked,  and  instead  of  endeavoring  to  con- 
ciliate good-will  and  remove  prejudice,  his  mind  was  in  s-uch  a 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  285 

fevered  state  of" excitement,  that  he  indulged  in  every  bitter 
feeling  towards  those  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  and  shrunk 
yet  more  from  the  performance  of  his  duty.  Instances  of  care- 
less neglect  were  often  found,  and  became  magnified  in  the  re- 
lation. The  young  curate  was  not  always  at  hand  when  his 
presence  was  principally  required  ;  he  never  left  directions 
where  he  might  be  found.  Abuse  crept  into  that  parish,  which 
in  the  time  of  his  predecessor  had  been  one  of  the  most  orderly 
in  Mr.  Hamilton's  domains — abuses  in  the  younger  inhabit- 
ants, at  which  old  men  looked  grave,  and  cited  the  neglect  of 
their  curate  as  the  cause,  though  to  what  abuses  young  Myrvin 
had  given  countenance  all  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  tell. 
That  he  did  not  rebuke  them  it  was  true ;  he  did  not  perhaps 
observe  them,  but  it  was  said,  and  justly,  he  must  have  been 
strangely  blind  not  to  do  so. 

The  villagers  understood  not  that  pre-oecupation  of  mind 
which  does  indeed  render  us  blind  to  all  things, 'save  to  the 
one  intense  subject  of  thought. 

Complaints  were  made  to  and  heard  by  the  rector,  who, 
faithful  to  his  trust,  visited  his  parish,  made  inquiries,  ho;  d. 
tales  concerning  his  curate  that  startled  his  charity,  and  final- 
ly spoke  severely  to  Arthur  on  his  careless  and  neglectful  con- 
duct. It  would  hare  been  better  for  Arthur  had  pride  re- 
mained banished  during  that  interview;  but,  unfortunately, 
fired  with  indignation  at  any  thing  resembling  censure  c^en 
from  a  superior,  it  returned  with  full  force,  and  by  his  haughty 
silence  with  regard  to  some  of  the  charges  brought  against 
him,  his  ill-disguised  contempt  of  others,  confirmed  every  evil 
report  concerning  him  which  Mr.  Howard  had  heard.  Mildly 
he  requested  that  the  future  might  atone  for  the  past,  and  that 
Myrvin  would  remember  the  sacred  post  he  held.  The  unhap- 
py young  man  heard  him  without  reply ;  but  when  the  rector 
had  departed,  he  strove  to  think  soberly  on  the  charges  brought 
against  him,  and  look  within  himself  to  know  if  he  deserved 
them.  Neglect  and  carelessness — yes,  he  had  given  cause  for 
both.  Other  accusations  of  much  graver  import  he  dismissed 
at  once,  satisfied  that  the  very  thought  of  such  vices  had  never 
even  for  one  moment  stained  his  mind,  and  as  secure  in  his  own 
integrity  and  right  feeling,  as  he  was  aware  of  the  prejudice 
against  him,  he  determined — as,  alas  !  how  many  in  such  caseg 
do — not  to  alter  his  general  conduct,  lest  it  should  be  said  he 
tacitly  admitted  the  truth  of  every  report  against  him.  Had 
he  only  been  accused  of  neglect  in  parochial  duties  he  might 
13 


290  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

perhaps,  if  his  troubled  spirit  had  permitted  him,  have  endea- 
vored to  attend  more  closely  to  them ;  but  his  pride  prevented 
him  from  striving  to  obtain  tlie  good-will  of  those  who  seemed 
only  alive  to  every  circumstance  tending  to  his  disadvantage. 
Would  he  endeavor  to  conciliate  those  whom  he  well  knew  dis- 
liked him?  no;  the  very  act  of  so  doing  would  be  brought 
against  him,  and  sternly  he  resolved  that  haughtiness  and 
pride  should  still  characterize  his  deportment.  What  mat- 
tered it  what  people  thought  or  said,  if  it  was  untrue  ?  he  cared 
not;  the  world  was  a  wilderness  to  his  excited  and  irritated 
fancy,  in  which  there  bloomed  but  veet  flower,  too  pure, 

too  beautiful  for  him  to  touch.     .  :  his  doom  he  thought 

to  grovel  on  the  earth,  hers  to  e  a  star  in  the  sphere 

above  him. 

Not  loncj  after  Mr.  Howard's  L- ••'•view  with  his  curate, 
Mr.  Uamilton's  family  and  his  guests  arr:-?d  at  Oakwood,  and 
lleibert  eagerly  sought  his  friend.  He  ••  shocked  at  the 
change  he  perceived  in  his  appearance,  V  though  marked, 
was  yet  quito  indescribable;  that  Ar'  is  unhappy,  that 

his  profession  ,:as  more  than  ever  cUsi.'v  1  to  him,  he  soon 
discovered ;  but  the  real  cause  of  gs  he  tried  in  vain 

to  probe.  He  saw,  with  the  cleepcct  roc-  •  that  all  his  former 
exhortations  on  the  subject,  liis  er.i'nesi  ^treaties  that  Arthur 
would  persevere  till  he  bn  .  willing  heart  as  an  offering 

•Jo  his  Maker,  all  had  bee:,  rataout  effect ;  but  yet  his  kind 
heart  could  not  cast  away  his  friend,  opposite  as  were  their 
feelings  on  a  subject  which  to  Herbert  was  of  vital  importance. 
It  was  strange  that  a  character  such  as  Herbert  Hamilton 
should  have  selected  Arthur  Myrvin  for  his  chosen  friend,  yet 
so  it  was.  It  might  have  been  pity,  sympathy,  which  had  first 
excited  this  friendship.  The  indignation  he  felt  at  the  un- 
justifiable treatment  Arthur  had  received  while  a  servitor  at 
college  had  excited  an  interest,  which  had  at  first  completely 
blinded  him  to  hrs  many  faults ;  and  when  they  were  discov- 
ered, the  ardent  desire  and  hope  that  he  might  be  of  service  in 
removing  them  from  the  otherwise  noble  character  of  his  friend, 
still  preserved,  and.  indeed,  heightened  his  regard.  Though 
frequently  disappointed  during  his  absence,  at  the  brevity  and 
sometimes  even  confused  style  of  Arthur's  letters,  he  had 
buoyed  himself  up  with  the  hope  that  his  representations  had 
had  their  effect,  and  he  should  find  him,  on  his  return,  recon- 
ciled and  happy  in  the  exercise  of  his  duties.  Again  he  urged, 
With  a  kindness  of  manner  that  caused  Arthur  to  wring  his 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  291 

hand,  and  then  pace  the  room  in  ill-concealed  agony,  the  ne- 
cessity, now  that  he  had  indeed  taken  orders,  of  endeavoring 
to  do  his  Master's  work  on  earth,  of  forcing  his  rebellious 
spirit  to  submission.  Arthur  listened  to  him  attentively,  sadly  ; 
but  vainly  Herbert  strove  to  instil  in  him  a  portion  of  that 
heavenly  love  which  was  to  him  the  mainspring  of  his  life. 
Arthur  loved  with  an  intensify,  which  utterly  prevented  his 
looking  up  to  heaven  as  the  goal,  to  reach  which  all  earthly 
toil  was  welcome  ;  and  still  not  even  to  Herbert  did  he  breathe 
one  syllable  of  the  fire  that  was  inwardly  consuming  him. 
Had  he  been  any  one  but  Herbert  Hamilton,  the  unhappy 
young  man  would  have  sought  and  found  relief  in  his  confi- 
dence ;  but  not  to  the  brother  of  the  being  he  loved,  oh,  not 
to  him — he  could  not,  dared  not. 

"  Herbert,"  he  would  say,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  contending 
feelings,  "  did  I  dare  betray  the  tortured  heart,  the  true  cause 
of  my  misery,  you  would  pity,  even  if  you  condemned  me  ;  but 
ask  it  not — ask  it  not,  it  shall  never  pass  my  lips  ;  one  thing 
only  I  beseech  you,  and  I  do  so  from  the  regard  you  have  ever 
seemed  to  feel  for  me.  However  you  may  hear  my  character 
traduced,  my  very  conduct  may  confirm  every  evil  report,  yet 
believe  them  not ;  I  may  be  miserable,  imprudent,  mad,  but 
never,  never  believe  the  name  of  Arthur  Myrvin  is  stained 
with  vice  or  guilt.  Herbert,  promise  me  this,  and  come  what 
may.  one  friend  at  least  is  mine." 

Herbert  gazed  on  him  with  doubt,  astonishment,  and  sor- 
row, yet  an  irresistible  impulse  urged  him  to  promise  all  he 
asked,  and  Myrvin  looked  relieved ;  but  painfully  he  felt, 
though  he  noticed  it  not  to  his  friend,  that  the  manner  of  Mr. 
Hamilton  towards  him  was  changed;  cordiality  and  kindness 
ha.d  given  place  to  coldness  and  reserve. 

The  whirl  of  a  gay  and  happy  London  season  had  produced 
no  change  in  the  outward  appearance  and  demeanor  of  Emme- 
line  Hamilton.  It  had  not  been  to  her  the  ordeal  it  had  beeu 
to  her  sister.  She  came  forth  from  the  gay  world  the  same 
pure,  innocent  being  as  she  had  entered  it.  Admired  she  was 
by  all  with  whom  she  was  associated,  but  her  smile  was  not 
sought  for,  her  conversation  not  courted,  as  had  been  Caro- 
line's, therefore  her  temptations  had  not  been  so  great,  but 
she  was  universally  beloved. 

Her  mother  sometimes  wondered  that  Emmeline,  keenly 
susceptible  as  she  was  to  every  other  emotion,  should  still  re 
main  so  insensible  to  any  thing  resembling  love.  "  She  ia 


292  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

indeed  still  the  same  innocent  and  darling  child."  she  thought, 
and  rested  in  pleased  and  satisfied  security.  She  little  knew, 
penetrating  even  as  she  was,  that  those  young  affections  were 
already  unconsciously  engaged,  that  one  manly  figure,  one 
melancholy  yet  expressive  face  utterly  prevented  the  reception 
of  any  other.  Emmeline  knew  not  herself  the  extent  of  influ- 
ence that  secret  image  had  obtained ;  she  guessed  not  tho 
whole  truth  until  that  night  when  her  marriage  had  been  jest- 
ingly alluded  to,  and  then  it  burst  upon  her,  stunning  her 
young  mind  with  a  sense  of  scarcely  defined,  yet  most  painful 
consciousness.  Arthur  Myrvin  had  looked  to  Emmeline's  re- 
turn to  Oakwood  with  many  mingled  feelings  ;  she  might  be 
perhaps,  even  as  her  sister,  a  betrothed  bride ;  he  might  have 
to  witness,  perhaps  to  officiate  at  her  nuptials;  he  might  see 
her  courted,  receiving  attentions  from  and  bestowing  smiies  on 
others,  not  casting  one  look  or  one  thought  on  him,  who  for 
her  would  have  gladly  died  The  idea  was  agony,  and  it  was 
the  sufferings  occasioned  by  the  anticipation  of  ideal  misery, 
that  had  produced  the  change  in  the  face  and  form  which  Her- 
bert had  beheld  and  regretted. 

They  met,  and  as  if  fortune  favored  their  secret  but  mu- 
tual affection,  alone,  the  first  time  since  Emmeline  had 
returned  from  London.  Unaccustomed  to  control,  and  at  that 
time  quite  unconscious  she  had  any  thing  to  conceal,  though 
wondering  why  every  pulse  should  throb,  and  her  cheek  so 
flush  and  pale,  her  agitation  of  manner,  her  expressed  and 
evidently  felt  sorrow  for  the  traces  of  suffering  she  beheld, 
sunk  as  bairn  on  the  sorrowing  heart  of  the  young  man,  and 
his  first  three  or  four  interviews  with  her  were  productive  of  a 
happiness  so  exquisite,  that  it  almost  succeeded  in  banishing 
his  gloom  ;  but  short  indeed  was  that  period  of  relief.  Speedily 
he  saw  her,  as  he  had  expected,  surrounded  by  gay  young  men 
of  wealth  and  station.  He  felt  they  looked  down  on  him ; 
they  thought  no*  of  him  ;  as  a  rival  he  was  unworthy,  as  inca- 
pable of  loving  a  being  so  exaltqd  ;  but  in  the  midst  of  these 
wretched  thoughts,  there  arose  o'ne,  that  for  a  brief  space  was 
so  Bright,  so  glad,  so  beautiful,  that  while  it  lasted  every 
object  partook  of  its  rays.  He  marked  her,  he  looked,  with 
eyes  rendered  clear  from  jealousy,  for  some  sign,  it  mattered 
not  how  small,  to  say  she  preferred  the  society  of  others  to  hia 
own  ;  ready  as  he  was  to  look  on  the  darkest  side  of  things, 
he  felt  the  hesitating  glance,  the  timid  tone  with  which  she  had 
latterly  addressed  him,  contrary  as  it  was  to  the  mischievous 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  293 

playfulness  which  had  formerly  marked  her  intercourse  with 
him,  was  dearer,  oh,  how  much  dearer,  than  the  gayety  in 
which  she  had  indulged  with  others.  This  change  in  her  man- 
ner was  unremarked  by  her  family. 

The  eye  of  love,  however,  looked  on  those  slight  signs  in  a 
very  different  light.  Did  she,  could  she  love  one  so  unworthy? 
The  very  idea  seemed  to  make  him  feel^as  a  new  and  better 
man.  He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  lest  any  outward 
sign  should  break  that  blessed  illusion,  and  then  he  started, 
and  returning  recollection  brought  with  it  momentary  despair. 
Did  she  even  love  him — were  even  her  parents  to  consent. — 
his  own, — for  his  vivid  and  excited  fancy  for  one  minute  im- 
agined what  in  more  sober  moments  he  knew  was  impossi- 
ble— yet,  even  were  such  difficulties  removed,  wo  aid  he,  could 
he  take  that  fair  and  fragile  creature  from  a  home  of  luxury 
and  every  comfort,  to  poverty  ?  What  had  he  to  support  a 
wife  ?  How  could  they  live,  and  what  hope  had  he  of  increas- 
ing in  any  way  his  fortune  ?  Was  he  not  exciting  her  affec- 
tions to  reduce  them,  like  his  own,  to  despair  ?  And  could 
she,  beautiful  and  delicate  a^s  she  was,  could  she  bear  the  de- 
privation of  his  lot?  She  would  never  marry  without  the 
consent  of  her  parents,  and  their  approval  would  never  be  his, 
and  even  if  it  were,  he  had  nothing,  not  the  slightest  hope  of 
gaining  any  thing  wherewith  to  support  her ;  and  she.  if  indeed 
she  loved  him,  he  should  see  her  droop  and  sink  before  his 
eyes,  and  that  he  could  not  bear;  his  own  misery  might  be 
endured,  but  not  hers.  No  !  He  paced  the  small  apartment 
with  reckless  and  disordered  steps.  His  own  doom  was 
fixed;  nothing  could  now  prevent  it;  but  hers,  it  might  not 
be  too  late.  He  would  withdraw  from  her  sight,  he  would 
leave  her  presence,  and  for  ever;  break  the  spell  that  bound 
him  near  her.  Ere  that  hasty  walk  in  his  narrow  room  was 
completed  his  resolution  was  fixed ;  he  would  resign  his 
curacy,  and  depart  from  the  dangerous  fascinations  hovering 
round  him. 

Yet  still  he  lingered.  If  he  had  been  too  presumptuous 
in  thinking  thus  of  Emmeline — if  he  were  indeed  nothing  to 
her,  why  should  he  inflict  this  anguish  on  himself?  Why 
need  he  tear  himself  from  her?  The  night  of  Edward's 
return,  while  in  one  souse  it  caused  him  misei'y,  by  the 
random  remark  of  Lord  Louis,  yet,  by  the  agitation  of  Emme- 
line, the  pang  was  softened,  though  he  was  strengthened  in 
iiis  resolve.  Four  days  afterwards,  the  very  evening  of  that 


294  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

day  when  Mr.  Howard  had  alluded  to  his  neglect  of  duties 
before  Herbert  and  his  cousins,  he  tendered  his  resignation, 
coldly  and  proudly  refusing  any  explanation,  or  assigning  any 
reason  for  so  doing,  except  that  he  wished  to  obtain  a  situation 
as  tutor  in  any  nobleman  or  gentleman's  family  about  to 
travel.  So  greatly  had  the  mind  of  Mr.  Howard  been  preju- 
diced against  the  unhappy  young  man,  by  the  false  represen- 
tations  of  his  parishioners,  that  he  rather  rejoiced  at  Myrvin'a 
determination,  having  more  than  once  feared,  if  his  conduct 
did  not  alter,  he  should  be  himself  compelled  to  dismiss  him 
from  the  curacy.  But  while  pleased  at  being  spared  a  task  so 
adverse  to  his  benevolent  nature,  he  yet  could  not  refrain  from 
regarding  this  strange  and  apparently  sudden  resolution  as 
a  tacit  avowal  of  many  of  those  errors  with  which  he  was 
charged. 

Feeling  thus,  it  will  be  no  subject  of  surprise  that  Mr. 
Howard  accepted  his  curate's  resignation  ;  but  while  he  did 
so,  he  could  not  refrain  from  giving  the  young  man  some  kind 
and  good  advice  as  to  his  future  life,  which  Arthur,  aware  the 
rector  regarded  him  through  the  medium  of  prejudice, 
received  not  in  the  same  kind  spirit  as  it  was  offered.  Ho 
listened  silently,  indeed,  but  with  an  air  of  pride  which 
checked  all  Mr.  Howard's  really  kind  intentions  in  his  favor. 

The  rector,  aware  that  Mr.  Hamilton  would  be  annoyed 
and  displeased  at  this  circumstance,  did  not  inform  him  of 
Myrvin's  intentions  till  some  few  weeks  after  Caroline's 
marriage,  not,  indeed,  till  he  felt  compelled  by  the  wish  to 
obtain  his  approval  of  a  young  clergyman  who  had  been  his 
pupil,  and  was  eager  to  secure  any  situation  near  Mr.  Howard, 
and  to  whom,  therefore,  the  curacy  Arthur  had  resigned  would 
be  indeed  a  most  welcome  gift.  Mr.  Hamilton  was  even  more 
disturbed,  when  all  was  told  him,  than  Mr.  Howard  had 
expected.  It  seemed  as  if  Arthur  had  forgotten  every  tie  of 
gratitude  which  Mr.  Hamilton's  services  to  his  father,  even 
forgetting  those  to  himself,  certainly  demanded.  His  deter- 
mined resolution  to  assign  no  reason  for  his  proceeding  but 
the  one  above  mentioned,  told  against  him,  and  Mr.  Hamilton, 
aware  of  the  many  evil  reports  flying  about  concerning  the 
young  man,  immediately  imagined  that  he  resigned  the  curacy 
fearing  discovery  of  misdemeanors  which  might  end  even 
more  seriously. 

Herbert,  too,  was  deeply  pained  that  his  friend  had  left 
himj  to  learn  such  important  intelligence  from  the  lips  of 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  295 

another  instead  of  imparting  it  himself.  It  explained  all  tho 
apparent  contradictions  of  Arthur's  conduct  the  last  month, 
but  it  surprised  and  grieved  him  ;  yet  the  mystery  caused 
him  both  anxiety  and  sadness,  for  Myrvin  was  evidently 
determined  in  no  way  to  solve  it.  That  he  was  unhappy  in 
no  ordinary  degree  was  to  the  eye  of  friendship  very  evident, 
not  only  in  the  frequent  wildness  of  his  manner,  but  in  the 
haggard  cheek  and  bloodshot  eye  ;  and  sympathy  was  thus 
ever  kept  alive  in  one  so  keenly  susceptible  of  the  woes  of 
others  as  was  Herbert  Hamiltcn ;  sympathy,  continually 
excited,  prevented  all  decrease  of  interest  and  :«gard.  Percy 
was  irritated  and  annoyed ;  Myrvin  had  disappointed  him. 
His  conduct,  in  return  for  Mr.  Hamilton's  kindness,  appeared 
ungrateful  as  unaccountable,  and  this  caused  the  more  fiery 
temper  of  the  young  heir  of  Oakwood  to  ignite  and  burst 
forth  in  the  presence  of  Arthur,  whose  meek  forbearance,  and, 
he  now  began  to  fancy,  silent  suffering  tamed  him  after  a 
brief  period,  and  caused  him,  with  his  usual  frankness  and 
quick  transition  of  mood,  to  make  him  an  apology  for  his 
violence.  He  was  touched  by  the  young  man's  manner,  but 
they  continued  not  on  the  same  terms  of  friendly  intimacy  as 
formerly. 

Mrs.  Hamilton's  charitable  nature,  heightened  also  by 
Herbert's  unchanging  regard,  would  not  permit  her  to  credit  the 
tales  that  were  abroad  concerning  him.  She  regretted  his  de- 
termination, for  it  appeared  like  wilfully  casting  away  the 
friendship  and  interest  of  those  who  were  likely  to  do  him 
service.  She  guessed  not  the  real  motive  of  his  resolve  ;  if  she 
had.  sh^  would  have  honored  even  as  she  now  regarded  him 
with  pity ;  but  almost  for  the  first  time  the  penetration  of 
Mrs.  Hamilton  was  at  fault.  Emmeline's  feelings,  even  as 
those  of  Arthur,  were  successfully  concealed ;  from  her 
brother  Herbert,  she  had  first  heard  of  Myrvin's  intentions. 
She  listened  in  silence,  but  her  lip  quivered  and  her  cheek 
grew  pale ;  and  when  she  sought  the  solitude  of  her  own  room 
tears  relieved  her,  and  enabled  her  to  act  up  to  her  determina- 
tion, cost  what  it  might,  to  be  the  same  playful,  merry  girl  be- 
fore her  parents  as  was  her  wont,  not  that  she  meant  in  any 
way  to  deceive  them,  but  she  had  learned  that  she  loved  Ar- 
thur Myrvin,  and  knew  also  that  to  become  his  wife,  situated 
as  they  were,  was  a  thing  impossible. 

Had  Emmeline  really  been  the  romantic  girl  so  generally 
believed,  she  would  now  have  done  all  in  her  nower  to  over- 


2%  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

corne  every  difficulty,  by  regarding  poverty  as  the  only  criterion 
of  true  love ;  she  would  have  fed  her  imagination  with  visions 
of  herself  and  Arthur,  combating  manfully  against  evil,  so 
they  shared  it  together;  she  would  have  robed  poverty  with 
an  imaginary  halo,  and  welcomed  it,  rejoicing  to  become  his 
wife,  but  such  were  not  her  feelings.  The  careful  hand  of  ma- 
ternal love  had  done  its  work,  and  though  enthusiasm  and  ro- 
mance were  generally  the  characteristics  most  clearly  visible., 
yet  there  was  a  fund  of  good  and  sober  sense  within,  that  few 
suspected,  and  of  which  even  her  parents  knew  not  the  extent, 
and  that  plain  sense  effectually  prevented  her  ever  becoming 
the  victim  of  imagination. 

Emmeline  loved  Arthur  Myrvin,  loved  him  with  an  inten- 
sity, a  fervor,  which  only  those  who  possess  as'milar  enthusias- 
tic temperament  can  understand.  She  felt  convinced  she  was 
not  indifferent  to  him ;  but  agony  as  it  was  to  her  young  heart 
to  part  from  him,  in  all  probability  for  ever,  yet  she  honored 
his  resolution  ;  she  knew,  she  felt  its  origin,  and  she  rejoiced 
that  he  went  of  his  own  accord,  ere  their  secret  feelings  \vero 
discovered. 

Notwithstanding  all  her  endeavors,  her  spirits  flagged, 
and  at  the  conclusion  of  the  Oakwood  festivities  she  appear- 
ed so  pale  and  thin,  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  consulted  Mr.  Mait- 
land.  Emmeline  had  resisted,  as  much  as  she  could  without 
failure  of  duty,  all  appeal  to  medical  advice,  and  it  was  with 
trembling  she  awaited  his  opinion  ;  when,  however,  it  was 
given,  she  rejoiced  that  she  had  been  consulted,  for  had  her 
parents  entertained  any  suspicions  of  the  real  cause,  it  would 
have  completely  banished  them.  He  said  she  was  merely  suf- 
fering from  the  effects  of  a  lengthened  period  of  excitement, 
that  quiet  and  regularity  of  pursuits  would  in  all  probability 
restore  both  health  and  spirits.  A  smile,  faint  and  apparently 
without  meaning,  played  round  her  lips  as  her  mother  repeat- 
ed what  he  had  said,  and  playfully  declared  she  should  most 
strictly  adhere  to  his  advice. 

Arthur  had  shrunk  from  the  task  of  acquainting  his  father 
with  his  intentions,  for  he  well  knew  they  would  give  him 
pain,  and  cause  him  extreme  solicitude,  and  he  postponed  do- 
ing so  till  his  plans  for  the  future  were  determined.  He  had 
even  requested  Ellen  and  Edward,  who  were  still  his  friends, 
to  say  but  little  concerning  him  during  their  stay  at  Liang- 
tfillan;  bat  if  they  revealed  his  intentions,  he  implored  them 
to  use  all  their  influence  with  his  father  to  reconcile  him  to 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  297 

this  bitter  disappointment  of  his  cherished  hopes.  He  had 
determined  not  to  return  to  Llangwillan ;  he  felt  he  could  not 
boar  to  see  his  parent  with  the  consciousness  that  he  had 
acted  contrary  to  his  wishes ;  he  would  not  therefore  do  so  till 
he  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  situation  he  so  earnestly 
desired.  But  as  the  period  when  he  should  resign  his  curacy 
now  rapidly  approached,  he  no  longer  refrained  from  writing 
to  his  father,  and  Ellen  proven  her  regard  for  both  father  and 
son.  by  affectionately  endeavoring  to  soothe  Mr.  Myrvin's  dis- 
appointment and  solicitude,  which  were,  as  his  son  expected,  ex- 
treme. She  succeeded,  at  length,  in  persuading  him,  that  could 
he  obtain  the  situation  he  so  much  desired,  Arthur  would  be 
more  likely  to  advance  than  in  retaining  his  present  occupation. 

The  period  of  Arthur's  departure  came  a  few  days  before 
Christmas.  He  went  to  bid  Mr.  Hamilton  farewell  the  very 
morning  on  which  that  gentleman  intended  riding  over  to 
Exeter  to  meet  Ellen  and  her  brother,  on  their  return  from 
Llangwillun.  To  Arthur  this  interview  was  indeed  a  painful 
one.  From  the  moment  his  resolution  to  depart  had  been 
fixed,  that  moment  the  blessed  truth  had  strangely  and  sud- 
denly burst  upon  him  that  he  was  beloved  ;  a  new  spirit  ap- 
peared to  dawn  within,  and  midst  the  deep  agony  it  was  to 
feel  he  was  parting  for  ever  from  a  being  he  so  dearly  loved, 
there  was  a  glow  of  approving  conscience  that  nerved  him  to 
its  endurance.  I*-  was  this  which  had  enabled  him  to  conquer 
his  irritation  at  Percy's  violence,  and  the  grief  it  was  to  feel 
that  Herbert  too  much  doubted  him.  He  esteemed,  he  loved, 
was  deeply  grateful  to  Mr.  Hamilton,  and  his  evident  displea- 
sure was  hard  to  bear ;  yet  even  that  he  had  borne,  strength- 
ened by  secret  yet  honorable  incentives.  But  that  morning, 
his  heart  throbbing  with  ill-concealed  anguish,  for  the  follow- 
ing day  he  would  be  miles  from  Oakwood,  never,  never  to  be- 
hold Emmeline  again,  his  frame  weakened,  his  blood  fevered 
from  the  long-continued  mental  struggle,  the  stern  address  of 
Mr.  Hamilton,  stung  him  to  the  quick. 

Mr.  Hamilton  was  not  one  of  those  who  could  disguise  his 
sentiments.  If  interested  at  all  in  the  fortunes  of  another,  he 
felt  lie  must  speak,  however  severe  in  some  cases  his  words 
might  seem.  As  the  chosen  friend  of  his  son — the  victim  for 
a  time  of  oppression  and  injury — young  Myrvin  had  excited 
his  interest  too  powerfully  for  him  entirely  to  abandon  it 
even  now:  and  therefore  he  spoke  plainly  to  him  even  as  he 
thought. 

13* 


298  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  You  arc  casting  from  you,"  he  said,  "  a  friend  who  was 
both  able  and  willing  to  assist  you,  apparently  without  the 
slightest  regret,  even  with  indifference.  As  the  chosen  and 
dear  companion  of  my  valued  son,  your  interests  were  mine, 
and  gladly  would  I  have  done  all  in  my  power  to  forward  your 
views,  had  your  conduct  been  such  as  I  expected  and  required, 
but  such  it  appears  has  been  far  from  the  case.  Your  unac- 
countable resignation  of  a  situation,  which,  though  not  one  of 
great  emolument,  was  yet  of  value,  unhappily  confirms  every 
evil  report  I  have  heard.  The  same  unsteady  and  wavering 
spirit  which  urges  you  to  travel,  instead  of  permitting  you  to 
remain  contented  in  the  quiet  discharge  of  sacred  duties,  may 
lead  you  yet  more  into  error,  and  I  warn  you  as  a  friend,  gov- 
ern it  in  time.  You  may  deem  me  intrusive  in  my  remarks, 
I  speak  but  for  your  own  good,  young  man  ;  and  though  your 
forgetfulness  of  the  sacred  nature  of  your  profession  could  not 
fail  to  lessen  my  esteem  and  regard,  yet  for  your  father's  sake 
I  would  implore  you  to  remember  that  your  calling  involves 
duties  of  the  most  solemn  nature,  and  renders  you  a  much 
more  responsible  being  both  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man." 

Arthur  answered  him  not.  His  cheek  burned  and  hia 
heart  throbbed,  but  it  was  the  father  of  Emmeline,  the  bene- 
factor of  his  father,  who  spoke,  and  he  might  have  spoken  more 
and  more  severely,  but  he  would  have  been  unanswered  ;  even 
to  defend  his  own  stainless  integrity  and  innocence  he  could 
not  have  spoken,  the  power  of  speech  appeared  to  have  en- 
tirely deserted  him.  Never  could  he  have  been  said  to  hope, 
but  the  words  he  had  heard  proved  to  him  that  he  had  lost 
the  esteem  and  regard  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  and  darkened  his 
despair.  He  fixed  his  large,  dark  gray  eyes  earnestly  on  Mr. 
Hamilton's  face,  so  earnestly,  that  for  some  time  afterwards 
that  look  was  recalled  with  melancholy  feelings ;  he  bent  his 
head  silently  yet  respectfully,  and  quitted  the  room  without 
uttering  a  single  word. 

Struck  by  his  haggard  features,  and  the  deeply  mournful 
tone  of  his  voice,  as  he  bade  her  farewell  and  thanked  her  for 
all  her  kindness,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  whose  kindly  nature  had 
never  permitted  her  to  share  her  husband's  prejudices  against 
him,  invited  him,  if  his  time  permitted,  to  accompany  her  on 
her  walk  to  Woodlands,  where  she  had  promised  Lady  Helen 
and  Lilla  to  spend  the  day  during  her  husband's  absence. 
There  was  such  extreme  kindness  in  her  manner,  pervading 
also  her  words,  that  Arthur  felt  soothed  and  comforted,  though 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  299 

he  found  it  difficult  to  converse  with  her  on  the  indifferent  sub- 
jects she  started,  nor  could  he  answer  her  concerning  his 
plans  for  the  future,  for  with  a  burning  cheek  and  faltering 
voice  he  owned  they  were  not  yet  determined.  He  gazed  on 
her  expressive  features,  which  responded  to  the  interest  she 
expressed,  and  he  longed  to  confess  the  whole  truth,  and  im- 
plore her'  pity,  her  forgiveness  for  having  dared  to  love  her 
child ;  but  with  a  strong  effort  he  restrained  himself,  and  they 
parted,  in  kindness  indeed,  but  nothing  more. 

••  Eumieline  is  gone  down  to  the  school,"  said  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, unasked,  and  thus  betraying  how  entirely  she  was  free 
from  all  suspicions  of  the  truth,  "  and  she  goes  from  hence  to 
see  a  poor  woman  in  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  You  must 
not  leave  us  without  wishing  her  farewell,  or  she  will  think 
you  have  not  forgiven  all  the  mischievous  jokes  she  has  played 
off  upon  you  so  continually  " 

Arthur  started,  as  he  looked  on  her  face.  Again  the  wish 
arose  to  tell  her  all,  but  it  was  instantlv  /necked,  and  bowing 
with  the  deepest  reverence,  as  he  pressed  in  his  her  offered 
hand,  hastily  withdrew. 

Should  he  indeed  see  Emmeline.  and  alone  ?  Her  mother's 
voice  had  bid  him  seek  her,  but  the  same  motives  that  bade 
him  resign  his  curacy,  caused  him  now  to  feel  the  better 
course  would  be  to  fly  at  once  from  the  fascination  of  her  pre- 
sence, lest  in  a  moment  of  excitement  he  should  be  tempted 
to  betray  the  secret  of  his  love  ;  but  while  passion  struggled 
with  duty,  the  flutter  of  her  dress,  as  Emmeline  suddenly 
emerged  from  a  green  lane,  and  walked  slowly,  and.  he  thought, 
sadly  along,  caught  his  eye,  and  decided  the  contest. 

'•  I  will  be  guarded  ;  not  a  word  of  love  shall  pass  my  lips. 
I  will  only  gaze  on  her  sweet  face,  and  listen  to  the  kind  tones 
of  her  dear  voice  again  before  we  part  for  ever,"  he  thought, 
and  darting  forwards,  was  speedily  walking  by  her  side.  He 
believed  himself  firm  in  his  purpose,  strong,  unwavering  in  his 
resolution  :  but  his  heart  had  been  wrung  to  its  inmost  core, 
his  spirit  bent  beneath  its  deep,  wild  agony,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment temptation  was  too  powerful ;  he  could  not,  oh,  he  could 
not  part  from  her,  leave  her  to  believe  as  others  did.  Could 
he  bear  that  she,  for  whose  smile  he  would  have  toiled  day  and 
night,  to  be  regarded  with  esteem,  to  obtain  but  one  glance  of 
approbation,  could  he  bear  that  she  should  think  of  him  as  the 
unworthy  being  he  was  represented  ?  No  !  he  felt  he  could 
not,  and  in.  one  moment  of  unrestrained  and  passionate  feel- 


300  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

% 

ing,  his  love  was  told,  the  treasured  secret  of  his  breaking 
heart  revealed. 

Enimelhie  heard,  and  every  limb  of  her  slight  frame  trem- 
bled, almost  convulsively,  with  her  powerful  struggle  for  com- 
posure, with  the  wish  still  to  conceal  from  him  the  truth  that 
he  was  to  her  even  as  she  to  him,  dear  even  as  life  itself;  but 
the  struggle  was  vain.  The  anguish  which  the  sight  of  hit 
deep  wretchedness  inflicted  on  that  young  and  gentle  bosom, 
which  from  childhood  had  ever  bled  for  others'  woes,  was  too 
powerful,  and,  led  on  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  she  acknow- 
ledged his  affections  were  returned  ;  for  she  felt  did  she  not 
speak  it,  the  extreme  agitation  she  could  not  hide  would  at 
once  betray  the  truth,  but  at  the  same  instant  she  avowed  her 
unhappy  love,  she  told  him  they  must  part  arid  for  ever.  She 
conjured  him  for  her  sake  to  adhere  to  his  resolution  and 
leave  the  neighborhood  of  Oakwood  ;  she  thanked  him  with 
all  the  deep  enthusiasm  of  her  nature,  for  that  regard  for  her 
peace  which  she  felt  confident  had  from  the  first  dictated  his 
resigning  his  curacy,  and  braving  the  cruel  prejudices  of  all 
around  him,  even  those  of  her  own  father,  rather  than  betray 
his  secret  and  her  own  ;  rather  than  linger  near  her,  to  play 
upon  her  feelings,  and  tempt  her,  in  the  intensity  of  her  affec- 
tion for  him,  to  forget  the  duty,  the  gratitude,  the  love,  she 
owed  her  parents. 

Cl  Wherefore  should  I  hide  from  you  that  the  affection,  the 
esteem  you  profess  and  have  proved  for  me  are  returned  with 
equal  force?"  continued  this  noble-minded  and  right-feeling 
girl,  as  they  neared  M rs.~ Langford's  cottage,  where  she  felt 
this  interview  must  cease — she  could  sustain  it  no  longer. 

'•  I  would  not,  I  could  not  thus  wound  the  kind  and  gene- 
rous heart  of  one,  to  whose  care  I  feel  I  could  intrust  iny 
earthly  happiness ;  but  as  it  is  situated  as  we  both  are.  we 
must  submit  to  the  decrees  of  Him.  who.  in  infinite  wisdom 
and  mercy  would,  by  this  bitter  trial,  evince  our  love  for  Him. 
and  try  us  in  the  ordeal  of  adversity  and  sorrow.  He  Calorie 
can  Know  the  extent  of  that  love  we  bear  each  other  ;  and  He, 
if  we  implore  Him,  can  alone  give  us  sufficient  strength  to 
obtain  the  conquest  of  ourselves.  We  part,  Arthur — and  if 
not  for  ever,  at  least  till  many  years  have  past.  Forget  me, 
Arthur  ;  you  have  by  the  honorable  integrity  of  your  conduct 
wrung  from  me  a  secret  I  had  deemed  would  have  died  with 
me ;  for  I  knew  and  felt,  and  so  too  must  you,  its  utter,  utter 
hopelessness." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSSE.  301 

Hoi  voice,  for  the  first  time,  faltered  ;  audibly,  but  with  a 
etrong  effort,  she  rallied  ;  "  I  do  not  ask  from  you  an  explana- 
tion of  the  rumors  to  your  discredit,  winch  are  flying  about  this 
neighborhood,  for  not  one  of  them  do  I  believe  ;  you  have  some 
secret  enemy,  whose  evil  machinations  will,  I  trust,  one  day 
be  clearly  pvjved  ;  perhaps  you  have  been  neglectful,  heedless., 
and  I  may  have  been  the  cause.  But  let  not  this  be,  dear  Ar- 
thur; let  me  not  have  the  misery  of  feeling  that  an  ill-fated 
love  for  one  thus  separated  from  you,  has  rendered  reckless 
that  character  which  is  naturally  so  gooJ,  so  bright,  and  noble. 
Oli.  fur  r.iy  sake,  yield  not  to  despair;  shake  off  this  lethargy, 
and  prove  to  the  whole  world  that  they  have  wronged  you, 
that  the  fame  of  Arthur  Myrvin  is  as  stainless  as  his  name." 

Arthur  moved  not  his  eyes  from  her  as  she  thus  spoke, 
every  word  she  uttered  increased  the  strong  devotion  he  felt 
towards  her  ;  but  as  the  purity,  the  nobleness  of  her  character 
was  displayed  even  clearer  than  ever  before  him,  he  felt  him- 
self unworthy  to  possess  her ;  and  yet  that  such  a  being  loved 
him.  avowed  her  love,  acknowledged  that  to  him  she  could 
intrust  her  earthly  happiness  without  a  single  doubt,  that 
knowledge  exalted  him  above  himself,  soothed  that  morbid  sen- 
sitiveness which  had  oppressed  him.  and,  ere  her  sweet  voice 
had  ceased  to  urge  him  on  to  exertion,  to  trust  in  Him  who 
had  ordained  their  mutual  trial,  he  had  inwardly  resolved  to 
nerve  himself  to  the  task,  and  prove  that  she  was  not  deceived 
in  him,  that  he  would  deserve  her  favorable  opinion.  He 
gazed  on  her  as  if  that  look  should  imprint  those  fair  and 
childlike  features  on  the  tablet  of  his  memory. 

••  I  will  obey  you,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with 
contending  emotions.  "  We  part,  and  when  I  return  years 
hence,  it  may  be  to  see  you  the  happy  wife  of  one  in  all  re- 
spects more  suited  to  you  j  but  then,  even  then,  although 
love  for  me  may  have  passed  away,  remember  it  is  you,  whose 
gentle  voice  has  saved  a  fellow  creature  from  the  sinful  reck- 
lessness of  despair ;  you  who  have  pointed  out  the  path  which, 
I  call  heaven  and  earth  to  witness,  I  will  leave  no  means  un- 
tried till  it  is  trodden.  Had  you  refused  to  hear  me,  had  you 
scorned  my  affections,  left  me  in  displeasure  for  my  presump- 
tion, oil,  Emmeline,  I  might  indeed  have  become  that  which  I 
am  believed  ;  but  now  you  have  inspired  me  with  a  new  spirit 
The  recollection  that  you  have  not  deemed  me  so  utterly  un 
worthy,  will  never,  never  leave  me  ;  it  shall  cling  to  me.  and  il 
evil  assail  me,  that  fond  thought  shall  overcome  temptation. 


802  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

The  vain  longings  for  a  more  stirring  profession  shall  no  more 
torment  me,  it  is  enough  you  have  not  despised  me ;  and  how- 
ever irksome  may  be  my  future  duties,  they  shall  be  performed 
with  a  steadiness  and  zeal  which  shall  procure  me  esteem,  if  it 
do  no  more,  and  reconcile  my  conscience  to  my  justly  offended 
Maker.  If,  in  future  years,  you  chance  to  hear  the  name  of 
Arthur  Myrvin  spoken  in  terms  of  respect  and  love,  you  will 
trace  your  own  work ;  and  oh,  Emmeline,  may  that  thought, 
that  good  deed,  prove  the  blessing  I  would  now  call  down  upon 
your  head." 

He  paused,  in  strong  and  overpowering  emotion,  and  Em- 
meline  sought  in  vain  for  words  to  reply ;  they  had  reached 
the  entrance  t,:  Mrs.  Langford's  little  garden,  and  now  the 
hour  had  come  when  they  must  part.  "  Farewell,  dearest  Ar- 
thur, may  God  bless  you,  and  give  you  peace  !  Leave  me 
now,"  she  added,  after  a  moment's  pause.  But  Arthur  could 
only  fix  his  eyes  mournfully  on  her  face,  as  though  her  last 
look  should  never  leave  him ;  then,  suddenly,  he  raised  her 
hand  to  his  quivering  lip.  One  moment,  through  blinding 
tears,  he  gazed  on  that  dear  being  he  loved  so  well ;  yet  anoth- 
er moment,  and  he  was  gone. 

Emmeline  leaned  heavily  against  the  little  gate,  a  sickness 
as  of  death  for  a  moment  crept  over  her  and  paralyzed  every 
limb.  With  a  strong  effort  she  roused  herself  and  entered 
the  cottage,  feeling  greatly  relieved  to  find  Mrs.  Langford  was 
absent.  She  sunk  on  a  low  seat,  and  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands,  gave  way  for  the  first  time  to  a  violent  burst  of  tears ; 
yet  she  had  done  her  duty,  she  had  acted  rightly,  and  that 
thought  enabled  her  to  conquer  the  natural  weakness  which, 
for  a  short  time,  completely  overpowered  her,  and  when  Mrs. 
Langford  returned,  no  signs  of  agitation  were  evident,  except 
a  more  than  ordinary  paleness,  which,  in  her  present  delicate 
state  of  health,  was  easily  attributable  to  fatigue. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  Widow  Langford  possessed  a 
shrewdness  and  penetration  of  character,  which  we  sometimes 
find  in  persons  of  her  clas*,  but  which  was  in  her  case  so  com- 
bined, from  long  residence  in  Mr.  Hamilton's  family,  with  a 
delicacy  and  refinement,  that  she  generally  kept  her  remarks 
very  much  more  secret  than  persons  in  her  sphere  of  life 
usually  do.  It  was  fortunate  for  our  poor  Emmeline  that  it 
was  so,  for  the  widow  had  chanced  to  be  an  unseen  witness  of 
Arthur's  impassioned  tarewell.  She  heard  the  concluding 
words  of  both  warkad  the  despairing  glance  of  Arthur,  the 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  303 

deadly  paleness  of  her  dear  Miss  Emmeline,  and  connecting 
these  facts  with  previous  observations,  she  immediately  im- 
agined the  truth ;  and  with  that  kindness  to  which  we  have 
alluded,  she  retreated  and  lingered  at  a  neighbor's  till  she 
thought  her  young  lady  had  had  sufficient  tim*.  to  recover  her 
composure,  instead  of  acting  as  most  people  would  have  done, 
hastened  up  to  her.  under  the  idea  she  was  about  to  faint,  and 
by  intrusive  solicitations,  and  yet  more  intrusive  sympathy  in 
such  a  mattef.  betrayed  that  her  secret  had  been  discovered. 

Mrs.  Langford  shrunk  from  acting  thus,  although  this  was 
not  the  first  time  she  had  suspected  the  truth.  She  knew 
Emmeline's  character  well,  and  doted  on  her  with  all  the  af- 
fection a  very  warm  heart  could  bestow.  Having  been  head 
nurse  in  Mrs.  Hamilton's  family  from  Herbert's  birth,  she 
loved  them  all  as  her  nurslings,  but  Emmeline's  very  delicate 
health  when  a  baby,  appeared  to  have  rendered  her  the  good 
woman's  especial  favorite. 

At  the  time  of  Caroline's  marriage,  Miss  Emmeline's  future 
prospects  were,  of  course,  the  theme  of  the  servants'  hall; 
some  of  whom  thought  it  not  at  all  improbable,  that  as  Miss 
Hamilton  had  become  a  countess,  Miss  Emmeline  might  one 
day  be  a  marchioness,  perhaps  even  a  duchess.  Now  Widow 
Langford  thought  differently,  though  she  kept  her  own  coun- 
sel, and  remained  silent.  Miss  Emmeline,  she  fancied,  would 
be  very  much  happier  in  a  more  humble  sphere,  and  settled 
down  quietly  near  Oakwood,  than  were  she  to  marry  some 
great  lord,  who  would  compel  her  to  live  amidst  the  wear  and 
tear  of  a  gay  and  fashionable  life.  Arthur  Myrvin  chanced 
to  be  a  very  great  favorite  of  the  widow's,  and  if  he  could  but 
get  a  richei  living,  and  become  rather  more  steady  in  his  char- 
acter, and  if  Miss  Emmeline  really  loved  him,  as  somehow  she 
fancied  she  did,  why  it  would  not  only  be  a  very  pretty,  but  a 
very  happy  match,  she  was  quite  sure. 

The  good  widow  was,  however,  very  careful  not  in  the  least 
to  betray  to  her  young  lady  that  she  had  been  a  witness  of 
their  parting ;  for,  after  an  expression  of  pleasure  at  seeing  her 
there,  an  exclamation  of  $urprise  and  regret  at  her  pale 
cheeks,  she  at  once  branched  off  into  a  variety  of  indifferent 
subjects  concerning  the  village,  topics  in  which  she  knew  Em- 
meline was  interested,  and  concluded  with — 

"  And  so  our  young  curate  is,  indeed,  going  to  start  for 
Exeter  to-night,  in  the  Totness  mail.  I  am  so  very  sorry, 
though  I  do  not  dare  to  say  so  to  any  of  my  uncharitable 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

neighbors.     I  did  not  think  he  would  go  so  soon,  poor  dear 
Mr.  Myrvin." 

"  It  is  not  too  soon,  nurse,  when  every  tongue  has  learned 
to  speak  against  him,"  replied  Emmeline,  calmly,  though  a 
sudden  flush  rose  to  her  cheek.  u  He  must  be  glad  to  feel 
Mr.  Howard  no  longer  requires  his  services." 

"  But  dear  Miss  Emmeline,  you  surely  do  not  believe  one 
word  of  all  the  scandalous  reports  ahout  him  ?"  said  the 
widow,  earnestly. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  do  so,  nor  will  I.  without  more  convinc- 
ing proofs,"  replied  Emmeline,  steadily.  "My  father,  I  fear, 
is  deeply  prejudiced,  and  that,  in  one  of  his  charitable  and 
kindly  feelings,  would  tell  against  him." 

"  My  master  has  been  imposed  on  by  false  tales,  my  dear 
young  lady ;  do  not  let  them  do  so  on  you,"  said  the  good  wo- 
man, with  an  eagerness  which  almost  surprised  her  young 
companion.  "  I  am  quite  convinced  he  has  some  secret 
enemy  in  the  parish,  I  am  pretty  certain  who  it  is ;  and  I  do 
not  despair  one  day  of  exposing  all  his  schemes,  and  proving 
Mr.  Myrvin  is  as  well  disposed  and  excellent  a  young  man  as 
any  in  the  parish.  I  know  who  the  villain  is  in  this  case,  and 
my  master  shall  know  it  too,  one  day."  Emmeline  struggled 
to  subdue  the  entreaty  that  was  bursting  from  her  lips,  but 
entirely  she  could  not,  and  seizing  the  widow's  hand,  she  ex 
claimed,  in  a  low  agitated  voice — 

"  Do  so ;  oh,  proclaim  the  falsehood,  the  cruelty  of  these 
reports,  and  I — I  mean  Arthur — Mr.  Myrvin  will  bless  you. 
It  is  so  cruei,  in  such  early  youth,  to  have  one's  character  de- 
famed, and  he  has  only  that  on  which  to  rest ;  tell  me,  pro- 
mise me  you  will  not  forget  this  determination." 

"  To  the  very  best  of  my  ability,  Miss  Emmeline,  I  pro- 
mise you."  replied  Mrs.  Langford,  more  and  more  confirmed 
in  her  suspicions.  "  But  do  not  excite  yourself  so  much,  dear 
heart.  Mr.  Maitland  said  you  were  to  be  kept  quite  quiet, 
you  know,  and  you  have  fatigued  yourself  so  much,  you  are 
trembling  like  an  aspen." 

''  My  weakness  must  plead  rq^  excuse  for  my  folly,  dear 
nurse,"  answered  Emmeline,  striving  by  a  smile  to  control  two 
or  three  tears,  which,  spite  of  all  resistance,  would  chase  one 
another  down  her  pale  cheek.  "  Do  not  mind  me,  I  shall  get 
well  very  soon.  And  hoW  long  do  you  think  it  will  be  before 
you  succeed  in  your  wish  ?" 

"  Not  for  some  time,  my  dear  young  lady ;    at  present  I 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  303 

have  only  my  suspicions ;  I  must  watch  cautiously,  ere  they 
can  be  confirmed.  I  assure  you  I  am  as  anxious  that  poor 
young  man's  cl-sracter  should  be  cleared  as  you  can  be." 

A  faint  smPe  for  a  moment  played  round  Emmeline's  lips, 
as  uhe  pressed  the  good  woman's  hand,  and  said  she  was  satis- 
fied. A  little  while  longer  she  lingered,  then  rousing  herself 
with  a  strong  effort,  she  visited,  as  she  had  intended,  two  or 
three  poor  cottages,  and  forced  herself  to  listen  to  and  enter 
with  apparent  interest  on  those  subjects  most  interesting  to 
their  inmates.  In  her  solitary  walk  thence  to  Woodlands  she 
strenuously  combated  with  herself,  lest  her  *houghts  °hould 
adhere  to  their  loved  object,  and  lifting  up  her  young  enthusi- 
astic soul  in  fervent  faith  and  love  to  its  Creator,  she  succeed 
cd  at  length  in  obtaining  the  composure  she  desired,  and  in 
meeting  her  mother,  at  Woodlands,  with  a  smile  and  assumed 
playfulness,  which  did  not  fail,- even  at  Mrs.  Hamilton's  gentle 
reproof  for  her  lengthened  absence  and  over  fatigue,  to  which 
she  attributed  the  paleness  resting  on  her  cheek,  and  which 
e'veu  the  return  of  Edward  and  Ellen  to  Oakwood,  and  the 
many  little  pleasures  incidental  to  a  reunion,  could  not  chase 
away. 

Three  weeks  passed  quietly  on  ;  Oakwood  was  once  more 
the  seat  of  domestic  enjoyment.  The  Earl  and  Countess  St. 
Eval  spent  the  week  of  Christmas  with  them,  which  greatly 
heightened  every  pleasure,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  in- 
stead of  seeking  in  vain  for  one  dear  face  in  the  happy  group 
around  them  on  the  eve  of  Christmas  and  the  New  Year,  be- 
held beside  their  peaceful  hearth  another  son,  beneath  whose 
fond  and  gentle  influence  the  character  of  Caroline,  already 
chastened,  was  merging  into  beautiful  maturity;  and  often  as 
Mrs.  Hamilton  gazed  on  that  child  of  care  and  sorrow,  yet  of 
deep  unfailing  love,  she  felt,  indeed,  in  her  a  mother's  recom- 
pense was  already  given. 

Edward's  leave  of  absence  was  extended  to  a  longer  period 
than  usual.  His  ship  had  been  dismantled,  and  now  lay  un- 
tenanted  with  the  other  floating  castles  of  the  deep;  Her  offi- 
cers and  men  had  been  dispersed,  and  other  stations  had  not 
yet  been  assigned  to  them.  Nor  did  young  Fortescue  intend 
joining  a  ship  again  as  midshipman  ;  his  buoyant  hopes — the 
expectations  of  a  bus^  fancy — told  him  that  perhaps  the  epau- 
lette of  a  lieutenant  would  glitter  on  his  shoulder.  On  his 
first  return  home  he  had  talked  continually  of  his  examination 
and  his  promotion,  but  as  the  time  neared  for  him  to  acconv 


800  HIE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

pany  his  unule  to  London  for  the  purpose,  his  volubility  wag 
checked. 

Caroline  and  her  husband  returned  to  Castle  Terryn,  und, 
scarcely  four  weeks  after  Myrvin's  departure,  Euuncline  re- 
ceived from  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Langford  an  unexpected  and 
most  agitating  letter.  It  was  from  Arthur  ;  intense  mental 
suffering,  in  the  eyes  of  her  it  addressed,  breathed  through 
every  line  ;  but  that  subject,  that  dear  yet  forbidden  subject, 
their  avowed  and  mutual  love,  was  painfully  avoided  ;  it  had 
evidently  been  a  struggle  to  write  thus  calmly,  impassionately, 
and  Emmeline  blessed  him  for  his  care :  it  merely  implored 
her  to  use  her  influence  with  St.  Eval  to  obtain  his  interference 
with  his  father  on  his  (Arthur's)  behalf.  Lord  Malvern  he 
had  heard  was  seeking  for  a  gentleman  to  accomnany  his  son 
Louis  as  tutor  and  companion  to  Germany ;  there,  for  the  two 
following  years,  to  improve  his  education,  and  enable  him  to 
obtain  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  language  and  literature 
of  the  country.  Arthur  had  applied  for  the  situation,  and  re- 
cognized by  the  Marquis  as  the  young  clergyman  he  had  so 
often  seen  at  Oakwood,  he  received  him  with  the  utmost  cor- 
diality and  kindness.  On  being  questioned  as  to  his  reasons 
for  resigning  his  curacy,  he  frankly  owned  that  so  quiet  a  life 
was  irksome  to  him,  and  a  desire  to  travel  had  occasioned  the 
wish  to  become  tutor  to  any  nobleman  or  gentleman's  son  about 
to  do  so.  He  alluded  himself  to  the  reports  to  his  prejudice, 
avowed  with  sorrow  that  neglect  of  parochial  duties  was  in- 
deed a  just  accusation,  but  from  every  other,  he  solemnly  as- 
sured the  Marquis,  his  conscience  was  free.  Not  one  proof  of 
vice  or  even  irregularity  of  conduct  had  been  or  could  be 
brought  against  him.  He  farther  informed  Emmeline,  that  not 
only  the  Marquis  but  the  Marchioness  and  the  whole  family 
appeared  much  disposed  in  his  favor,  particularly  Lord  Louis, 
who  declared  that  if  he  might  not  have  him  for  a  tutor,  he 
would  have  no  one  else,  and  not  go  to  Germany  or  to  any 
school  at  all.  The  Marquis  had  promised  to  give  him  a  deci- 
ded answer  as  soon  as  he  had  consulted  Lord  St.  Eval  on  the 
subject.  He  knew,  Myrvin  concluded,  that  her  influence  was 
great  with  the  Earl,  and  it  was  for  that  reason  and  that  alone 
he  had  ventured  to  address  her. 

Emmeline  reflected  long  and  deeply  on  this  letter.  Had 
she  listened  to  the  powerful  pleadings  of  her  deep  affection, 
she  would  have  shrunk  from  thus  using  her  influence,  however 
email,  to  send  him  from  England, — yet,  could  she  hesitate  ? 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  307 

had  she  indeed  forgotten  herself  to  follow  that  only  path  of 
duty  she  had  pointed  out  to  him?  Brief  indeed  were  her 
moments  of  indecision.  She  wrote  instantly  to  St.  Eval  in 
Arthur's  favor,  but  so  guardedly  and  calmly  worded  her  letter, 
that  no  suspicion  of  any  kinder  or  more  interested  feeling  than 
that  of  her  peculiarly  generous  and  warm-hearted  nature  could 
have  been  suspected,  either  by  St.  Eval  or  her  sister.  She 
excused  her  boldness  in  writing  thus  unadvised^  and  secretly, 
by  admitting  that  she  could  not  bear  that  an  unjust  and 
unfounded  prejudice  should  so  cruelly  mar  the  prospects  of  so 
young,  and,  she  believed,  injured  a  fellow-creature.  She  was 
well  aware  that  her  father  shared  this  prejudice,  and  therefore 
she  entreated  St.  Eval  not  to  mention  her  share  in  the  trans- 
action. 

Lord  St.  Eval  willingly  complied  with  her  wishes.  She 
had  been,  as  we  know,  ever  his  favorite.  He  loved  her  perfect 
artlessness  and  playfulness,  her  very  enthusiasm  rendered  her 
an  object  of  his  regard ;  besides  which,  on  this  point,  his 
opinion  coincided  with  hers.  He  felt  assured  young  Myrvin. 
was  unhappy — on  what  account  he  knew  not — but  he  was  con- 
vinced he  did  not  deserve  the  aspersions  cast  upon  him ;  and, 
directly  after  the  receipt  of  Emmeline's  earnest  letter,  he  came 
unexpectedly  to  the  parish,  made  inquiries,  with  the  assistance 
of  Mrs.  Langford,  and  returned  to  Castle  Terryn,  perfectly 
satisfied  that  it  would  certainly  be  no  disadvantage  to  his 
brother  to  be  placed  under  the  care  and  companionship  of 
Arthur  Myrvin.  He  lost  no  time  in  imparting  this  opinion  to 
his  father  ;  and  Emmeline  very  quickly  learned  that  the  whole 
affair  was  arranged.  Lord  Louis  was  wild  with  joy  that 
Arthur  Myrvin,  whom  he  had  liked  at  Oakwood,  was  to  be 
his  tutor,  instead  of  some  prim  formidable  dominie,  and  to  this 
news  was  superadded  the  intelligence  that,  the  second  week  in 
February,  the  Rev.  Arthur  Myrvin  and  his  noble  pupil 
quitted  England  for  Hanover,  where  they  intended  to  make 
some  stay. 

Emmeline  heard,  and  the  words,  "  will  he  not  write  me  one 
line  in  farewell  ere  he  leaves  England?"  were  murmured  inter- 
nally, but  were  instantly  suppressed,  for  she  knew  the  very 
wish  was  a  departure  from  that  line  of  stern  control  she  had 
laid  down  for  herself  and  him  ;  and  that  letter,  that  dear,  that 
precious  letter — precious  for  it  came  from  him,  though  not  one 
word  of  love  was  breathed, — ought  not  that  to  be  destroyed  ? 
Had  she  any  right  now  to  cherish  it,  when  the  aid  she  sought 


308  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

had  been  given,  its  object  gained?  Did  her  parents  know  she 
possessed  that  letter,  that  it  was  dear  to  her,  what  would  bo 
their  verdict?  And  was  she  not  deceiving  them  in  thus 
retaining,  thus  cherishing  a  remembrance  of  him  she  had 
resolved  to  forget?  Emmeline  drew  forth  the  precious  letter; 
she  gazed  on  it  long,  wistfully,  as  if,  in  parting  from  it,  the 
pang  of  separation  with  the  beloved  writer  was  recalled.  She 
pressed  her  lips  upon  it,  and  then  with  stern  resolution 
dropped  it  into  the  fire  that  blazed  upon  the  hearth  ;  and. 
with  cheek  pallid  and  breath  withheld,  she  marked  the  utter 
annihilation  of  the  first  and  last  memento  she  possessed  of 
Lim  she  loved. 

Mrs.  Hamilton's  anxiety  on  Emmeline's  account  did  not 
decrease.  She  still  remained  pale  and  thin,  and  hnr  spirits 
more  uneven,  and  that  energy  which  had  formerly  betn  such  a 
marked  feature  in  her  character  appeared  at  times  entirely  to 
desert  her;  and  Mr.  Maitland,  discovering  that  the  extreme 
quiet  and  regularity  of  life  which  he  had  formerly  recom- 
mended was  not  quite  so  beneficial  as  he  had  hoped,  changed 
in  a  degree  his  plan,  and  advised  diversity  of  recreation  an'd 
amusements  of  rather  more  exertion  than  he  had  at  first 
permitted.  Poor  Emmeline  struggled  to  banish  thought,  that 
she  might  repay  by  cheerfulness  the  tenderness  of  her  parents 
and  cousins,  but  she  was  new  to  sorrow  ;  her  first  was  indeed 
a  bitter  trial,  the  more  so  because  even  from  her  mother  it 
was  as  yet  concealed.  She  succeeded  for  a  time  in  her  wishes, 
so  far  as  to  gratify  her  mother  by  an  appearance  of  her  usual 
enthusiastic  pleasure  in  the  anticipation  of  a  grand  ball,  given 

by  Admiral  Lord  N ,  at  Plymouth,  which  it  was  expected 

the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Clarence  would  honor  with  their 
presence.  Ellen  anxiously  hoped  her  brother  would  return  to 
Oakwood  in  time  to  accompany  them.  He  had  passed  his 
examination  with  the  best  success,  but  on  the  advice  of  Sir 
Edward  Manly,  they  both  lingered  in  town,  in  the  hope 
that  being  on  the  spot  the  young  officer  would  not  be  forgotten 
in  the  list  of  promotions.  He  might,  Edward  gayly  wrote, 
chance  to  return  to  Oakwood  a  grade  higher  than  he  left  it, 

CHAPTER  XV. 

"  ELLEN,  I  give  you  joy  !"  exclaimed  Emmeline.  entering  Mie 
room  where  her  mother  and  cousin  were  sitting  one  afternoon, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  309 

and  speaking  with  some  of  her  former  cheerfulness.  "  There 
is  a  carriage  coming  down  the  avenue,  and  though  I  cannot 
quite  distinguish  it.  I  have  second  sight  sufficient  to  fancy  it 
is  papa's.  Edward  declared  he  would  not  tell  us  when  he  was 
coining  home,  and  therefore  there  is  nothing  at  all  improbable 
in  the  idea  that  he  will  fire  a  broadside  on  us,  as  he  calls  it. 
unexpectedly." 

"  I  would  willingly  stand  fire  to  see  him  safe  anchored  off 

this  coast,"  replied  Ellen,  smiling.  "  Lord  N 's  ball  will 

lose  half  its  charms  if  he  be  not  there." 

••  What !  with  all  your  enthusiastic  admiration  of  her  Royal 
Highness,  whom  you  will  have  the  honor  of  seeing  ?  For  shame, 
Ellen." 

"  My  enthusiastic  admiration  ;  rather  yours,  my  dear  Em- 
rneline.  Mine  is  so  quiet  that  it  does  not  deserve  the  name 
of  enthusiasm,"  replied  Ellen,  laughing.  "  Nor  could  I  have 
imagined  you  would  have  honored  me  so  far  as  to  give  me  an 
attribute  in  your  eyes  so  precious." 

"  I  am  getting  old  and  learning  wisdom,"  answered  Emme- 
linc.  making  an  effort  to  continue  her  playfulness,  ':and  there- 
fore admire  quietness  more  than  formerly." 

"  And  therefore  you  are  sometimes  so  silent  and  sad,  to 
atone  for  the  past."  my  Eiumeline,  remarked  her  mother, 
somewhat  sorrowfully. 

"  Sad,  nay,  dearest  mother,  do  me  not  injustice ;  I  cannot 
be  sad,  when  so  many,  many  blessings  are  around  me."  replied 
the  affectionate  girl.  "  Silent  I  may  be  sometimes,  but  that  is 
only  because  I  do  not  feel  quite  so  strong  perhaps  as  I  once 
did.  and  it  appears  an  exertion  to  rattle  on  as  I  used  upon 
trifling  subjects. 

"  I  shall  not  be  contented,  then,  my  torn  Emmeline,  till 
that  strength  returns,  and  I  hear  you  delighted,  even  as  of  old, 
with  little  things  again." 

"  And  yet  you  have  sometimes  smiled  at  my  romance,  and 
bade  me  think  of  self  control,  dearest  mother.  Must  I  bo 
saucy  enough  to  call  you  changeable  ?"  answered  Emmeliue, 
smiling,  as  she  looked  in  her  mother's  face. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  prevented  replying  by  Ellen's  delighted 
exclamation  that  it  was  her  uncle's  carriage,  and  Edward  was 
waving  a  white  handkerchief,  as  if  impatient  to  reach  them,  an 
impatience  which  was  speedily  satisfied  by  his  arrival,  bound- 
ing into  the  room,  but  suddenly  pausing  at  the  door  to  permit 
bis  uncle  and  another  gentleman's  entrance,  to  which  latter  he 


310  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

respectfully  raised  his  cap.  and  then  sprung  forward  to  clasp 
the  extended  hands  of  his,  cousin  and  sister. 

'•  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you.  madam,"  said  Sir  Edward 
Manly,  after  returning  with  easy  politeness  the  courteous  greet- 
ing of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  l'on  the  promotion  of  one  of  the  bravest 
officers  and  most  noble-minded  youths  of  the  British  navy, 
and  introduce  all  here  present  to  Lieutenant  Fortescue,  of  his 
Majesty's  frigate  the  Royal  Neptune,  whose  unconquered  and 
acknowledged  dominion  over  the  seas  I  Jiave  not  the  very 
slightest  doubt  he  will  be  one  of  the  most  eager  to  preserve.'1' 

"'  Nor  can  I  doubt  it,  Sir  Edward,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
smiling,  as  she  glanced  on  the  flushing  cheek  of  her  gallant 
nephew,  adding,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  "  God  bless 
you,  my  dear  boy  !  I  do  indeed  rejoice  in  your  promotion,  for 
I  believe  it  well  deserved." 

-  You  are  right,  madam,  it  is  well  deserved,"  replied  Sir 
Edward,  with  an  accent  so  marked  on  the  last  sentence  that 
the  attention  of  all  was  arrested.  "  Hamilton,  I  have  been 
silent  to  you  on  the  subject,  for  I  wished  to  speak  it  first  be- 
fore all  those  who  are  so  deeply  interested  in  this  young  man's 
fate.  "  The  lad,"  he  added,  striking  his  hand  frankly  on  Ed- 
ward's shoulder,  "  the  lad  whose  conscience  shrunk  from  re- 
ceiving public  testimonials  of  his  worth  as  a  sailor,  while  his 
private  character  was  stained,  while  there  was  that  upon  it 
which,  if  known,  he  believed  would  effectually  prevent  his  pro- 
motion ;  who,  at  the  risk  of  disappointment  to  his  dearest 
wishes,  of  disgrace,  want  of  honor,  possessed  sufficient  courage 
to  confess  to  his  captain  that  his  log-book,  the  first  years  of  his 
seamanship,  told  a  false  tale — the  lad,  I  say,  who  can  so  nobly 
command  himself,  is  well  worthy  to  govern  others.  He  who 
has  known  so  welJHhe  evil  of  disobedience  will  be  firm  in  the 
discipline  of  his  men,  while  he  who  is  so  stern  to  his  own  faults 
will,  I  doubt  not,  be  charitable  to  those  of  others.  The  sword 
presented  to  him  for  his  brave  preservation  of  the  crew  of  the 
Syren  will  never  be  stained  by  dishonor,  while  he  looks  upon 
it  and  remembers  the  past,  and  even  as  in  those  of  my  own 
son,  shall  I  henceforward  rejoice  in  using  my  best  endeavors 
to  promote  the  fortunes  of  Edward  Fortescue." 

The  return  of  Edward,  the  honors  he  had  received,  the 
perfect  happiness  beaming  on  his  bright  face,  all  caused  Ellen 
to  look  forward  to  the  ball  with  greater  pleasure  than  she  had 
ever  regarded  gayety  of  that  sort  before  ;  and  Mrs.  Hamilton 
would  sometimes  playfully  declare  that  she  and  Emmeline 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  31  i 

had  for  a  time  exchanged  characters,  although  Edward's 
never-failing  liveliness,  his  odd  tales  and  joyous  laugh,  had 
appeared  partly  to  rouse  the  latter's  usual  spirits,  and  dissi- 
pate slightly  her  mother's  anxiety. 

The  festive  night  arrived,  and  anticipation  itself  was  not 
disappointed  in  the  pleasure  it  bestowed.  All  the  nobility  of 
the  country,  for  miles  round,  had  assembled  in  respect  to  the 
royal  guests  who  had  honored  the  distinguished  commander 
with  their  august  presence ;  and  Mrs.  Hamilton's  natural 
feelings  of  pride  were  indeed  gratified  that  night,  as  she 
glanced  on  her  Caroline,  who  now  appeared  in  public  for  the 
first  time  since  her  marriage,  attired  in  simple  elegance,  yet 
with  a  richness  appropriate  to  her  rank,  attracting  every  eye, 
even  that  of  their  Royal  Highnesses  themselves,  by  the  grace- 
ful dignity  of  her  tall  and  commanding  figure,  by  the  quiet 
repose  and  prMshed  ease  which  characterized  her  every  move- 
ment. If  Lord  St.  Eval  looked  proud  of  his  young  wife, 
there  were  few  there  who  would  have  Hamed  him.  The  Lady 
Florence  Lyle  was  with  her  brother,  enjoying  with  unfeigned 
pleasure,  as  did  Ellen,  and  to  all  appearance  Emmeline,  the 
scene  before  them. 

The  brilliant  uniforms  of  the  army,  and  the  handsome, 
but  less  striking  ones  oiihe  navy,  imparted  additional  gayety 
and  splendor  to  the  rooms,  forming  picturesque  groups,  when 
contrasting  with  the  chaste  and  elegant  costumes  of  the  fairer 
sex  But  on  the  fascinating  scene  we  may  not  linger,  nor 
attempt  to  describe  the.  happiness  which  the  festivities  occa- 
sioned the  entire  party,  nor  on  the  gratification  of  Lieutenant 
Fortescue,  when  Sir  Edward  Manly  begged  the  honor  of  an 
introduction  for  his  young  friend  to  his  Royal  Highness  the 
Duke  of  Clarence,  who,  with  his  amiable  consort,  the  Princess 

Adelaide,  had  honored  Lord  N with  their  august  presence. 

Upon  one  incident  alone  we  must  be  permitted  to  dwell,  as 
affording  a  great  and  unexpected  pleasure  to  our  friend  Ellen. 

Edward  and  Ellen  were  for  some  time  perfectly  uncon- 
scious that  they  were  objects  of  the  most  earnest,  penetrating 
scrutiny  of  a  lady,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  young  and  hand- 
gome  man  in  regimentals,  near  them. 

'•  It  must  be  them  ;  that  likeness  cannot  be  that  of  a 
stranger,"  were  the  words,  uttered  in  an  earnest,  persuading 
tone,  addressed  by  the  young  officer  to  the  lady,  who  might  be 
his  mother,  which  were  the  first  to  attract  the  attention  of  tho 
little  group,  though  the  speaker  appeared  quite  unconscious 


312  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

that  he  was  overheard.  "  Let  roe  speak  to  him,  and  at  least 
ask  tlie  question." 

"  No,  no,  Walter,"  the  lady  replied,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  Changed  as  are  our  situations  now,  I  could  not  wish,  even 
if  it  be  them,  to  intrude  upon  their  remembrance." 

An  exclamation  of  suppressed  impatience  escaped  from  the 
lips  of  the  young  man,  but  instantly  checking  it,  he  said, 
respectfully  and  tenderly — 

'•  Dearest  mother,  do  not  say  so,  if"  (the  name  was  lost.) 
"  grew  up  as  she  was  a  child,  she  would  be  glad  to  welcome 
the  friend  of  her  father,  the  companion  of  her  childhood." 

"  But  it  cannot  be,  Walter  ;  that  beautiful  girl  is  not  like 
my  poor  child,  though  her  brother  may  strangely  resemblo 
those  we  have  known." 

'•  Have  you  not  often  told  me,  mother,  we  never  change  so 
much  from  childhood  into  youth?  Ellen  was  always  ill,  now 
she  may  be  well,  and  that  makes  all. the  difference  in  the 
world.  I  am  much  mistaken  if  those  large,  mournful  eyes 
can  belong  to  any  but " — 

He  paused  abruptly;  for  convinced  that  they  must  be  the 
subject  of  conversation,  and  feeling  they  were  listening  to  lan- 
guage not  meant  for  their  ears,  Edward  and  Ellen  turned  to- 
wards the  speakers,  who  to  the  Wrmer  appeared  perfect 
strangers,  not  so  to  the  latter.  Feelings,  thoughts  of  her 
earliest  infancy  and  childhood,  came  thronging  over  her  as  a 
spell,  as  she  gazed  on  the  lady's  countenance,  which,  by  its 
expression,  denoted  that  sorrow  had  been  her  portion  ;  it  was 
changed,  much  changed  from  that  which  it  had  been  ;  but  the 
rush  of  memory  on  Ellen's  young  soul  told  her  that  face  had 
been  seen  before.  A  night  of  horror  and  subsequent  suffer- 
ing flashed  before  her  eyes,  in  which  that  face  had  beamed  in 
fondness  and  in  soothing  kindness  over  her;  that  voice  had 
spoken  accents  of  love  in  times  when  even  a  mother's  words 
were  harsh  and  cold. 

"  Forgive  me,  sir,  but  is  not  your  name  Fortescue  ?"  in- 
quired the  young  man,  somewhat  hesitatingly,  yet  frankly,  as 
he  met  Edward's  glance. 

"You  have  the  advantage  of  me,  sir,"  he  replied,  with 
equal  frankness ;  "  such  is  my  name,  but  yours  I  cannot 
guess." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  am  I  speaking  to  the  son  of  Col- 
onel Fortescue,  who  fell  in  India  during  a  skirmish  against 
the  natives,  nearly  ten  years  ago?" 

«  The  same,  sir." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  313 

t;  Then,  it  is — it  is  Mrs.  Cameron ;  I  am  not,  I  knew  I 
iould  not  be  mistaken."  exclaimed  Ellen,  in  an  accent  of 
delight,  and  bounding  forward,  she  clasped  the  lady's  eagerly 
extended  hand  in  both  hers,  and  gazing  in  her  face  with  eyes 
glistening  with  starting  tears.  "And  would  you,  could  you 
have  passed  me,  without  one  word  to  say  my  friend,  the  wife 
of  my  father's  dearest  friend,  was  so  near  to  me?  you  who 
in  my  childhood  so  often  soothed  and  tended  my  sufferings, 
dourest  Mrs.  Cameron  ?"  and  tears  of  memory  and  of  feeling 
fell  u^on  the  hand  she  held,  while  young  Cameron  gazed  on 
her  with  an  admiration  which  utterly  prevented  his  replying 
coherently  to  the  questions,  the  reminiscences  of  former  years, 
when  they  were  playmates  together  in  India,  which  Edward, 
discovering  by  his  sister's  exclamation  who  he  was,  was  now 
pouring  in  his  ear. 

'•  I  did  not,  could  not  think  I  should  have  been  thus  affec- 
tionately, thus  faithfully  remembered,  my  dear  Ellen,  after  a 
lapse  of  so  many  years,"  replied  Mrs.  Cameron,  visibly  affect- 
ed at  her  young  companion's  warmth.  "  I  could  not  imagine 
the  memory  of  a  young  child,  such  as  you  were  when  we  part- 
ed, would  have  been  so  acute.1' 

"  Then  my  niece  must  have  been  all  these  years  mistaken, 
and  you  too  did  not  understand  her.  though  she  fancied  you 
did,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  with  a  smile,  advancing  to  relieve 
Ellen's  agitation,  which  the  association  of  her  long  lamented 
father  with  Mrs.  Cameron  rended  almost  painful.  "  I  could 
have  told  you,  from  the  moment  she  was  placed  under  my 
care,  that  she  never  would  forget  those  who  had  once  been 
kind  to  her.  I  have  known  you  so  long,  from  Ellen's  report, 
that  glad  am  I  indeed  to  make  your  acquaintance ;  you  to 
whom  my  lamented  sister  was  so  much  indebted." 

Gratified  and  soothed  by  this  address,  for  the  sight  of 
Ellen  had  awakened  many  sad  associations,  she  too  being  now 
a  widow,  Mrs.  Cameron  rallied  her  energies,  and  replied  to 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  in  her  naturally  easy  and  friendly  manner 
Ellen  looked  on  the  black  dress  she  wore,  and  turned  inquir- 
ingly to  young  Cameron,  who  answered  hurriedly,  for  he  guess- 
ed her  thoughts. 

"Ask  not  of  my  father,  he  is  beside  Colonel  Fortescue; 
he  shared  his  laurels  and  his  grave." 

An  expression    of   deep    sympathy    passed    over    Ellen's 
countenance,  rendering  her  features,  to  the  eager  glance  of  thp 
young  man.  yet  more  attractive.' 
14 


314  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  You  have,  I  see,  much  to  say  and  inquire,  my  dear 
Ellen,"  said  her  aunt,  kindly,  as  she  marked  her  flushed  cheek 
and  eager  eye.  ';  Perhaps  Mrs.  Cameron  will  indulge  you  by 
retiring  with  you  into  one  of  those  quiet,  little  retreshment- 
rooms.  where  you  can  talk  as  much  as  you  please  without 
remark." 

"  Can  I  ask  my  dear  young  friend  to  resign  the  pleasures 
of  the  dance,  and  agreeable  companionship  of  the  friends  I 
see  thronging  round  her,  to  listen  to  an  old  woman's  tale  ?" 
eaid  Mrs.  Cameron,  smiling. 

"I  think  you  are  answered."  replied  Mrs.  Hnmilton,  play- 
fully, as  Ellen  passed  her  arm  through  that  of  Mrs.  Camerop, 
and  looked  caressingly  and  persuadingly  in  her  face. 

Mrs.  Cameron's  tale  was  soon  told.  She  had  returned  to 
England,  for  India  had  become  painful  to  her,  from  the  many 
bereavements  which  had  there  unhappily  darkened  her  lot. 
Captain  Cameron  had  fallen  in  an  engagement,  two  or  three 
years  after  Mrs.  Forfescue's  departure ;  and  out  of  seven  ap- 
parently healthy  children,  which  had  been  hers  when  Ellen 
knew  her,  only  three  now  remained. ,  It  was  after  the  death  of 
her  eldest  daughter,  a  promising  girl  of  eighteen,  her  own 
health  having  suffered  so  exceedingly  from  the  shock,  that  her 
son  Walter,  fearing  for  her  life,  effected  an  exchange,  and  be- 
ing ordered  to  return  with  his  regiment  to  England — for  he 
now  held  his  father's  rank  of  captain — he  succeeded  in  per- 
suading his  mother  to  accompany  him  with  his  sisters.  He 
was  quartered  at  Devonport,  where  it  appeared  they  had  been 
residing  the  last  eight  months,  visited,  even  courted,  by  most 
of  the  military  and  naval  officers  who  had  known  and  respect- 
ed  his  father ;  amongst  whom  was  Lord  N ,  who  had  per- 
suaded Mrs.  Cameron  to  so  far  honor  his  ball  as  there  to  intro- 
duce her  daughter  Flora  using  arguments  she  could  not  resistr 
and  consequently  delighting  her  affectionate  children  by  ouec 
more  appearing  in  public. 

"  And  this  is  Walter,  the  kind  Walter,  who  used  ever  to 
take  my  part,  though  he  did  scold  me  for  always  looking  so 
sad,"  exclaimed  Ellen,  after  hearing  her  friend's  tale,  and  an- 
swering all  her  questions  concerning  herself,  looking  up  as  she 
spoke  on  the  young  man,  who  had  again  joined  them,  and 
blushing  with  timidity  at  her  boldness  in  thus  speaking  to  one 
who  had  grown  into  a  stranger. 

The  young  man's  heart  throbbed  as  he  heard  himself  ad- 
dressed as  Walter  by  the  beautiful  girl  beside  him ;  and  he 


THE 'MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  315 

found  it  difficult  to  summon  sufficient  courage  to  ask  hei  to 
dance  with  him  ;  frankly,  however,  she  consented. 

Ellen  found  pleasure,  also,  in  renewing  acquaintance  with 
the  timid  Flora,  whom  she  had  left  a  playful  child  of  seven, 
and  who  was  now  merging  into  bright  and  beautiful  girlhood  ; 
eager  to  return  her  kindly  warmth,  in  the  delight  of  finding 
one  of  her  own  age  among  that  glittering  crowd  of  strangers. 

But  few  more  incidents  of  note  occurred  that  night :  dan- 
cing continued  with  unabated  spirit,  even  after  the  departure 
of  the  royal  guests,  and  pleasure  was  the  prevailing  feeling  to 
the  last.  The  notice  of  the  Duke,  and  the  benignant  spirit  of 
the  Duchess,  her  gentle  and  kindly  manners,  had  penetrated 
many  a  young  and  ardent  soul,  and  fixed  at  once  and  unwaver- 
ingly the  stamp  of  future  loyalty  within. 

Once  introduced  to  Mrs.-  Cameron,  and  aware  that  she  re- 
sided so  near  them.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  cultivated  her 
acquaintance ;  speedily  they  became  intimate.  In  Mrs.  For- 
tescue's  broken  and  dying  narrative,  she  had  more  than  once 
mentioned  them  as  the  friends  of  her  husband,  and  having 
been  most  kind  to  herself,  Edward  had  alluded  to  Captain 
Cameron's  care  of  him,  and  parting  advice,  when  about  to  em- 
bark for  England ;  and  Ellen  had  frequently  spoken  of  Mrs. 
Cameron's  kindness  to  her  when  a  child.  All  those  who  had 
shown  kindness  to  her  sister  were  objects  of  attraction  to  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  and  the  widow  speedily  became  so  attached  to  her 
and  her  amiable  family,  that,  on  Walter  being  suddenly  or- 
dered out  to  Ireland  (which  commands,  by  the  way,  the  young 
man  obeyed  with  very  evident  reluctance),  she  gladly  consented 
to  rent  a  small  picturesque  cottage  between  Woodlands  and 
Oakwood.  an  arrangement  which  added  much  to  the  young 
people's  enjoyment;  while  the  quiet  repose  of  her  present  life, 
the  society  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  her  worthy  husband,  as  also 
that  of  Mr.  Howard,  restored  the  widow  to  happiness,  which 
had  not  been  her  portion  since  her  husband's  death  ;  and  now, 
for  the  first  time.  Mrs.  Hamilton  became  acquainted  with  those 
minute  particulars  which  she  had  for  the  last  nine  years  de- 
sired to  know,  concerning  the  early  childhood  of  those  orphans 
then  committed  to  her  care.  That  her  sister  had  been  partial, 
it  was  very  easy  to  discover ;  but  the  extent  of  the  evil,  and 
the  many  little  trials  Ellen's  very  infancy  had  to  encounter, 
were  only  subjects  of  conjecture,  for  she  could  not  bear  to  lead 
them  to  speak  on  any  topic  that  might  in  the  least  havo 
reflected  on  the  memory  of  their  mother. 


310  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

The  intelligence  therefore  which  she  now  obtained,  explain 
ed  all  that  had  been  a  matter  of  mystery  and  surprise  in  El- 
len's character,  and  rendered  clearer  than  ever  to  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton the  painful  feelings  which  had  in  opening  youth  actuated 
her  niece's  conduct;  and  often,  as  she  listened  to  Mrs.  Came- 
ron's account  of  her  infant  sufferings  and  her  mother's  harsh- 
ness and  neglect,  did  Mrs.  Hamilton  wish  such  facts  had  from 
the  first  been  known  to  her;  much  sorrow,  she  felt  assured, 
might  have  been  spared  to  all.  She  would  perchance  have 
been  enabled  to  have  so  trained  her  and  soothed  her  early 
Wounded  sensibility,  that  all  the  wretchedne&s  of  her  previous 
years  might  have  been  avoided  ;  but  she  would  not  long  allow  her 
mind  to  dwell  on  such  things.  She  looked  on  her  niece  as 
dearer  than  ever,  from  the  narrative  she  had  heard,  and  she 
was  thankful  to  behold  her  thus  in  radiant  health  and  beauty, 
and,  she  hoped,  in  happiness,  although  at  times  there  was  still 
a  deeper  shade  of  seriousness  than  she  loved  to  see  imprinted 
on  her  brow,  and  dimming  the  lustre  of  her  eye,  but  it  caused 
her  no  anxiety.  Ellen's  character  had  never  been  one  of  light- 
hearted  glee;  it  would  have  been  unnatural  to  see  it  now,  and 
she  believed  that  appearance  of  melancholy  to  be  her  natural 
disposition,  and  so  too,  perhaps,  the  orphan  regarded  it  herself. 

A  very  few  weeks  after  Lord  N — 's  ball,  Edward  again  de- 
parted from  Oakwood  to  join  his  ship.  He  parted  gayly  with 
his  friends,  for  he  knew  his  voyage  was  to  be  but  a  short  one ; 
and  that  now  the  first  and  most  toilsome  step  to  promotion 
had  been  gained,  he  should  have  very  many  more  opportuni- 
ties of  taking  a  run  home  and  catching  a  glimpse,  he  said,  joy- 
ously, of  the  wnole  crew  who  were  so  dear  to  him,  on  board 
that  tough  old  sbip  Oakwood;  and  Ellen,  too,  could  share  his 
gayety  even  the  night  previous  to  his  departure,  for  this  was 
not  like  either  their  first  or  second  parting.  She  had  all  to 
hope  and  but  JUtle  to  fear;  for  her  trust  was  too  firmly  fixed 
on  Him  who  had  guarded  that  beloved  brother  through  so 
many  previous  dangers  and  temptations,  to  bid  her  waver  now. 
Even  Mrs.  Bamiiton's  anxious  bosom  trembled  not  as  she 
parted  from  the  son  of  her  affections,  the  preserver  of  her  Ims- 
baod;  and  though  Oakwood  felt  dull  and  gloomy  on  the  first 
departure  or  the  mischief  loving,  mirtli/ul  sailor,  it  wns  not  the 
gloom  of  sorrow.  February  passed,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton's  soli- 
citude wlih  regard  to  Emmeline  still  continued.  There  were 
timess  vLen,  deceived  by  her  daughter's  manner,  lively  and 
playful  apparently  as  usual,  she  permitted  herself  to  feel  less 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  317 

anxious ;  but  the  pale  cheek,  the  dulled  eye,  the  air  of  lan- 
guor, and  sometimes,  though  not  often,  of  depression  \vuich 
pervaded  every  movement,  very  quickly  recalled  anxiety  and 
apprehension.  Mr.  Maitland  could  not  understand  her.  If 
for  a  moment  he  imagined  it  was  mental  suffering,  her  man- 
ner was  such  the  next  time  he  saw  her  as  entirely  to  baffle  that 
fancy,  and  convince  him  that  the  symptoms  which  caused  Mrs. 
Hamilton's  alarm  were,  in  reality,  of  no  consequence.  Deter- 
mined to  use  every  effort  to  deceive  him.  lest  he  should -betray 
to  her  parents  the  real  cause  of  her  sufferings.  Enuneline  gene- 
rally rallied  every  effort  and  rattled  on  with  him,  as  from  a 
child  she  had  been  accustomed,  therefore  it  was  no  wonder  the 
worthy  surgeon  was  deceived ;  and  often,  very  often,  did  the 
poor  girl  wish  she  could  deceive  herself  as  easily.  It  was  now 
nearly  three  months  since  she  and  young  Myrvin  had  so  pain- 
fully parted,  and  her  feelings,  instead  of  diminishing  in  their 
intensity,  appeared  to  become  more  powerful.  She  had  hoped, 
by  studiously  employing  herself,  by  never  indulging  in  one 
idle  hour,  to  partially  efface  his  remembrance,  but  the  effort 
was  fruitless.  The  letters  from  Lady  Florence  and  Lady 
Emily  Lyle  became  subjects  of  feverish  interest,  for  in  them 
alone  she  heard  unprejudiced  accounts  of  Arthur,  of  whose 
praises,  they  declared,  the  epistles  of  their  brother  Louis  were 
always  full;  so  much  so,  Lady  Emily  said,  that  she  certainly 
should  fall  in  love  with  him.  for  the  purpose  of  making  a  ro- 
mantic story.  Sadly  did  poor  Em  incline  feel  there  was  but 
little  romance  in  her  feelings ;  cold,  clinging  despair  had  over- 
come her.  She  longed  for  tbe  comfort  of  her  mother's  sympa- 
thy, but  his  character  was  not  yet  cleared.  Mr.  Hamilton 
evidently  mistrusted  the  praises  so  lavishly  bestowed  on  the 
young  man  ly  Lord  Malvern's  family ;  and  how  could  she  de- 
fend him,  if  accused  of  presumption  towards  herself?  Pre- 
sumption there  had  not  been  ;  indeed,  his  conduct  throughout 
had  done  him  honor.  She  fancied  her  mother  would  be  dis- 
pleased, might  imagine  she  had  encouraged  the  feeling  of  ro- 
mantic admiration  till  it  became  an  ideal  passion,  and  made 
herself  miserable.  Perhaps  an  unknown,  yet  ever-lingering 
hope  existed  within,  spite  of  despair,  perhaps  aerial  visions 
would  mingle  in  the  darkness,  and  Emmeline  shrunk,  uncon- 
sciously, from  their  utter  annihilation  by  the  stern  prohibition 
of  her  parents.  Such  was  the  constant  tenor  of  her  thoughts ; 
but  one  moment  of  excited  feeling  betrayed  that  which  she  had 
deemed  would  never  pass  her  lips. 


818  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

But  a  very  few  days  had  elapsed  since  Edward's  departure 
from  Oakwood,  when,  one  afternoon,  Mr.  Hamilton  entered 
the  usual  sitting-room  of  the  family,  apparently  much  dis- 
turbed. Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Ellen  were  engaged  in  work,  and 
Emmeline  sat  at  a  small  table  in  the  embrasure  of  one  of  the 
deep  Gothic  windows,  silently  yet  busi.y  employed  it  seemed  in 
drawing.  She  knew  her  father  had  gone  that  morning  to  the 
village,  and  as  usual  felt  uneasy  and  feverish,  fearing,  reason- 
ably or  unreasonably,  that  on  his  return  she  would  hear  some- 
thing unpleasant  concerning  Arthur ;  as  she  this  day  marked 
the  countenance  of  her  father,  her  heart  throbbed,  and  her 
cheek,  which  had  been  flushed  by  the  action  of  stooping,  paled 
even  unto  death. 

"  What  mishap  has  chanced  in  the  village,  that  you  look  so 
grave,  my  dear  love  ?"  demanded  his  wife,  playfully. 

"  I  am  perplexed  in  what  manner  to  act,  and  grieved, 
deeply  grieved,  at  the  intelligence  I  have  learned  ;  not  only 
that  my  prejudice  is  confirmed,  but  the  knowledge  I  have 
acquired  concerning  that  unhappy  young  man  places  me  in  a 
most  awkward  situation." 

"  You  are  not  speaking  very  intelligibly,  my  dear  husband, 
and  therefore  I  must  guess  what  you  mean  ;  I  fear  it  is  young 
Myrvin  of  whom  you  speak,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  her  playful- 
ness gone. 

"  They  surely  have  not  been  again  bringing  him  forward 
to  his  discredit?"  observed  Ellen,  earnestly.  '•  The  poor  young 
man  is  far  away;  why  will  they  still  endeavor  to  prejudice 
you  and  Mr.  Howard  against  him  ?" 

"  I  admire  your  charity,  my  dear  girl,  but,  I  am  sorry  to 
fay,  in  this  case  it  is  unworthily  bestowed.  There  are  facts 
now  come  to  light  which,  I  fear,  unpleasant  as  will  be  the  task, 
render  i^  my  duty  to  write  to  Lord  Malvern.  Arthur  Myrvin 
is  no  fit  companion  for  his  son." 

"  His*  poor,  poor  father  !"  murmured  Ellen,  dropping  her 
work,  and  looking  sorrowfully,  yet  inquiringly,  in  her  uncle's 
face. 

"  But  are  they  facts,  Arthur — are  they  proved  ?  for  that 
there  is  an  unjust  prejudice  against  him  in  the  village,  I  am 
pretty  certain." 

"  Thoy  are  so  far  proved,  that,  by  applying  them  to  him,  a 
mystery  in  the  village  is  cleared  up,  and  also  his  violent  haste 
to  quit  our  neighborhood.  You  remember  Mary  Brookes?' 

"  That  poor  girl  who  died,  it  was  said,  of  such  a  rapid  de- 
eline  1  Perfectly  well." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  319 

"  It  was  not  a  decline,  my  dear  Emmeline  ;  would  that  it 
bad  been.  She  was  beautiful,  innocent,  in  conversation  and 
manner  far  above  her  station.  There  are  many  to  say  she 
loved,  and  believed,  in  the  fond  trust  of  devotion,  all  that  the 
tempter  said.  She  was  worthy  to  be  his  wife,  and  she  becauie 
his  victim.  His  visits  to  her  old  grandmother's  cottage  I  my- 
self know  were  frequent.  He  deserted  her,  and  that  wild 
agony  broke  the  strings  of  life  which  remorse  had  already 
loosened;  ten  days  after  Myrvin  quitted  the  village  she  died, 
giving  birtli  to  an  unhappy  child  of  sin  and  corrow.  Her 
grandmother,  ever  dull  in  observation  and  sense,  has  been 
?ilent.  apparently  stupefied  by  the  sudden  death  of  her  Maiy, 
and  cherishes  the  po^r  helpless  infant  left  her  by  her  darling. 
Suddenly  she  has  appeared  awakened  to  indignation,  and  a 
desire  of  vengeance  on  the  destroyer  of  her  child,  which  I  could 
wish  less  violent.  She  implored  me,  with  almost  frantic  wild- 
ness,  to  obtain  justice  from  the  cruel  villain — accusing  him  by 
name,  and  bringing  forward  so  many  proofs,  which  the  lethargy 
of  grief  had  before  concealed,  that  I  cannot  doubt  for  one 
moment  who  is  the  father  of  that  poor  babe — the  cruel,  the 
heartless  destroyer  of  innocence  and  life." 

'•But  is  there  no  evidence  but  hers ?  I  wish  there  were, 
for  Dame  Williams  is  .so  weak  and  dull,  she  may  easily  be  im- 
posed upon,"  observed  Mrs.  Hamilton,  thoughtfully.  ';  It  is 
indeed  a  tale  of  sorrow ;  one  that  I  could  wish,  if  it  indeed  be 
true,  might  not  be  published ;  for,  did  it  reach  his  father's 
ears" — 

"It  will  break  his  heart,  I  know  it  will."  interrupted 
Ellen,  with  an  uncontrolled  burst  of  feeling  "  Oh,  do  not 
condemn  him  without  further  proofs,"  she  added,  appealingly. 

"  Every  inquiry  I  have  made  confirms  the  old  dame's 
story,"  replied  Mr.  Hamilton,  sadly.  "  We  know  Myrvin's 
life  in  college,  before  his  change  of  rank,  was  one  of  reckless 
gayety.  All  say  he  was  more  often  at  Dame  Williams's  cot- 
tage than  at  any  other.  Had  he  been  more  attentive  to  his 
duties,  we  might  have  believed  he  sought  to  soothe  by  religion 
poor  Mary's  suffering,  but  we  know  such  was  not  his  wont. 
Jefferies  corroborates  the  old  dame's  tale,  bringing  forward 
circumstances  he  had  witnessed,  too  forcibly  to  doubt.  And 
does  not  his  hasty  resignation  of  a  comfortable  home,  a  prom- 
ising living,  evince  his  guilt  more  strongly  than  every  other 
proof?  Why  did  he  refuse  to  defend  his  conduct?  Was  it 
Qct  likely  such  a  crime  as  this  upon  his  conscience  would 


320  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

occasion  that  restlessness  we  all  perceived,  that  extreme  haste 
to  depart?  he  would  not  stay  to  see  his  victim  die.  or  ba 
charged  with  a  child  of  sin.  There  was  a  mystery  in  his  sud- 
den departure,  but  there  is  none  now;  it  is  all  too  clear." 

"  It  is  false!"  burst  with  startling,  almost  overwhelming 
power  from  the  lips  of  Emmeline,  as  she  sprung  with  the 
strength  of  agony  from  her  seat,  and  stood  with  the  sudden- 
ness of  a  vision,  before  her  parents,  a  bright  hectic  spot  burn- 
ing on  either  cheek,  rendering  her  usually  mild  eyes  painfully 
brilliant.  She  had  sat  as  if  spell-bound,  drinking  iu  every 
word.  She  kneiv  the  tale  was  i'alse,  but  yet  each  word  had 
fallen  like  brands  of  heated  iron  on  her  already  scorching 
brain  ;  that  they  should  dare  to  breathe  such  a  tale  against  him, 
whose  fair  fame  she  knew  was  unstained,  link  his  pure  name 
with  infamy;  and  her  father,  too,  believed  it.  She  did  not 
scream,  though  there  was  that  within  which  longed  for  such 
relief.  She  did  not  faint,  though  every  limb  had  lost  its  power. 
A  moment's  strength  and  energy  alike  returned,  and  she  bound- 
ed forward.  "  It  is  false  !"  she  again  exclaimed,  and  her  pa- 
rents started  in  alarm  at  her  agonized  tone  :  '•  false  as  the  false 
villain  that  dared  stain  the  fair  fame  of  another  with  his  own 
base  crime.  Arthur  Myrvin  is  not  the  father  of  that  child; 
Arthur  Myrvin  was  not  the  destroyer  of  Mary  Brookes.  Go 
and  ask  Nurse  Langford:  she  who  hung  over  poor  Mary's  dy- 
ing bed  ;  who  received  from  her  own  cold  lips  the  name  of  the 
father  of  her  child  ;  she  who  was  alone  near  her  when  she  died. 
Ask  her,  and  she  will  tell  you  the  wretch,  who  has  prejudiced 
all  minds  against  the  good,  the  pure,  the  noble;  the  villain, 
the  cruel  despicable  villain,  who  rested  not  till  his  base  arts 
had  ruined  the — the — virtuous  ;  that  Jeff'eries,  the  canting 
hypocrite,  the  wretched  miscreant,  who  has  won  all  hearts  be- 
cause he  speaks  so  fair,  he,  he  alone  is  guilty.  Put  the  ques- 
tion to  him ;  let  Nurse  Langford  ask  him  if  the  dying  spoke 
falsely,  when  she  named  him,  and  his  guilt  will  be  written  on 
his  brow.  Arthur  Myrvin  did  visit  that  cottage  ;  Mary  had 
confessed  a  crime,  she  said  not  what,  and  implored  his  prayers; 
he  soothed  her  bodily  and  mental  sufferings,  he  robbed  death 
of  its  terrors,  and  his  only  grief  at  leaving  the  village  wasv 
that  she  would  miss  his  aid,  for  that  crime  could  not  be  con- 
fessed to  another;  and  they  dare  to  accuse  him  of  sin,  he  who 
is  as  good,  as  pure,  as — "  For  one  second  she  paused,  choked 
by  inward  agony,  but  ere  either  her  father  or  mother  could 
address  her,  she  continued,  in  an  even  wilder  tone, — "  Why 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  321 

did  Arthur  Myrvin  leave  this  neighborhood?  wLy  did  he  go 
hence  so  suddenly — so  painfully  1  because,  beeaust  he  loved 
me — because  he  knew  that  I  returned  his  love,  and  he  saw  the 
utter  hopelessness  that  surrounded  us,  and  he  went  forth  to  do 
his  duty ;  he  left  me  to  forget  him,  to  obtain  peace  in  the  for- 
getfulness  of  one,  I  may  never  see  again — forgetfulness !  oh, 
not  till  my  brain  ceases  to  throb  will  that  be  mine.  He  thought 
to  leave  me  with  his  lore  unspoken,  but  the  words  came,  and 
that  very  hour  we  parted.  He  loved  me,  he  knew  I  could  not 
be  his,  and  it  was  for  this  his  living  was  resigned,  for  this  he 
departed  ;  and  had  he  cause  to  blush  for  this?  pure,  honorable, 
as  was  his  love,  too  noble,  too  unselfish  to  urge  aught  that  could 
bid  Emmeline  forget  her  duty  to  her  parents  for  love  of  him.: 
bearing  every  calumny,  even  the  prejudice,  the  harshness  of  my 
father,  rather  than  confess  he  loved  me.  He  is  innocent  of 
every  charge  that  is  brought  against  him — all,  all,  save  the 
purest,  the  most  honorable  love  for  me  ;  and,  oh,  is  that  indeed, 
indeed  a  crime?" 

She  had  struggled  to  the  very  last  to  speak  calmly,  but 
now  sobs,  the  more  convulsive  because  the  more  suppressed, 
rose  choking  in  her  throat,  and  rendered  the  last  words  almost 
inaudible.  She  pressed  both  hands  against  her  heart  and  then 
her  temples,  as  if  to  still  their  painful  throbbings,  and  speak 
yet  more,  but  the  ejfort  was  fruitless,  and  she  darted  wildly, 
and  fled  as  an  arrow  from  the  room. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  looked  on  eaca  other  m  painful 
and  alarmed  astonishment,  and  Ellen,  deeply  affected,  rose 
hastily,  as  if  with  the  intention  of  following  her  agitated  cousin, 
but  her  aunt  and  uncle  entreated  her  not,  alleging  Emmeline 
•would  sooner  recover  alone,  asking  her  at  the  same  time  if  she 
had  known  any  thing  relative  to  the  confession  they  had  just 
heard.  She  answered  truly  in  the  negative.  Emmeline  had. 
scarcely  ever  spoken  of  young  Myrvin  in  her  hearing ;  but  as 
the  truth  was  now  discovered,  many  little  instances  rose  to  the 
recollection  of  both  parents  to  confirm  the  avowal  of  their  child, 
and  increase  their  now  painfully  awakened  solicitude.  Her 
agitation  the  night  of  Edward's  return,  when  Lord  St.  Eval 
laughingly  threatened  her  with  marriage,  rose  to  the  recollec- 
tion of  both  parents  ;  her  extreme  excitement  and  subsequent 
depression  ;  her  visibly  failing  health  since  Arthur's  depar- 
ture, all,  all,  too  sadly  confirmed  her  words,  and  bitterly  Mrs. 
Hamilton  reproached  herself  for  never  having  suspected  the 
truth  before,  for  permitting  the  young  man  to  be  thus  inti 
14* 


322  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

mate  at  her  house,  heedless  of  what  might  ensue,  forgetful  that 
Emmeline  was. indeed  no  longer  a  child,  that  her  temperament 
was  one  peculiarly  liable  to  be  thus  strongly  excited. 

For  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Hamilton  felt  pride  and  anger 
struggling  fiercely  in  his  bosom  against  Arthur,  for  having 
dared  to  love  one  so  far  above  him  as  his  child,  but  very 
quickly  his  natural  kindliness  and  charity  resumed  their 
sway.  Could  he  wonder  at  that  love  for  one  so  fond,  so 
gentle,  so  clinging,  as  his  Emmeline?  Would  he  not  hava 
deemed  Arthur  cold  and  strange,  had  her  charms  indeed 
passed  him  unnoticed  and  unfelt  ?  he  remembered  the  for- 
bearance, the  extreme  temper  the  unhappy  young  man  had 
ever  displayed  toward  him,  and  suddenly  and  unconsciously 
he  felt,  he  must  have  done  him  wrong ;  he  had  been  preju- 
diced, misguided.  If  Nurse  Langford's  tale  was  right,  and 
Jefferies  had  dared  to  accuse  another  of  the  crime  he  had  him- 
self committed,  might  he  not  in  the  like  manner  have  preju- 
diced the  whole  neighborhood  against  Arthur  by  false  reports  ? 
But  while  from  the  words  of  his  child  every  kindly  feeling 
rose  up  in  the  young  man's  favor,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton 
did  not  feel  the  less  painfully  that  Emmeline  had  indeed 
spoken  rightly ;  hopelessness  was  her  lot.  It  seemed  to  both 
impossible  that  they  could  ever  consent  to  behold  her  the 
wife  of  Myrvin,  even  if  his  character  jpere  cleared  of  the 
stigmas  which  had  been  cast  upon  it.  Could  they  consent  to 
expose  their  fragile  child,  nursed  as  she  had  been,  in  the  lap 
of  luxury  and  comfort,  to  all  the  evils  and  annoyances  of  pov- 
erty? They  had  naturally  accustomed  themselves  to  antici- 
pate Emmeline's  marrying  happily  in  their  own  sphere,  and 
they  could  not  thus  suddenly  consent  to  the  annihilation 
of  hopes,  which  had  been  fondly  cherished  in  the  mind  of 
each. 

Some  little  time  they  remained  in  conversation,  and  then 
Mrs.  Hamilton  rose  to  seek  the  chamber  of  her  suffering 
child,  taking  with  her  indeed  but  little  comfort,  save  her  hus- 
band's earnest  assurance  that  he  would  leave  no  means  untried 
to  discover  Jefferies'  true  character,  and  if  indeed  Arthur  had 
been  accused  unjustly. 

It  was  with  a  trembling  hand  Mrs.  Hamilton  softly  opened 
Emmeline's  door,  and  with  a  heart  bleeding  at  the  anguish 
she  beheld,  and  which  she  felt  too  truly  she  could  not  mitigate, 
i  he  entered,  and  stood  for  several  minutes  by  her  side  unno- 
ticed and  unseen. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  323 

There  are  some  dispositions  in  which  it  is  acutely  painful 
to  witness  sorrow.  Those  whom  we  have  ever  seen  radiant  iu 
health,  in  liveliness,  in  joy — so  full  of  buoyancy  and  hope, 
they  seem  as  if  formed  for  sunshine  alone,  as  if  they  could  not 
live  in  the  darkening  clouds  of  woe  or  care  ;  whose  pleasures 
have  been  pure  and  innocent  as  their  own  bright  beauty; 
who  are  as  yet  unknown  to  tjic  whisperings  of  inwardly 
working  sin  ;  full  of  love  and  gentleness,  and  sympathy,  ever 
ready  to  weep  for  others,  though  for  themselves  tears  are 
unknown  ;  creatures,  whose  warm  enthusiastic  feelings  bind 
them  to  every  heart  capable  of  generous  emotions  ;  tho^e  in 
whom  we  see  life  most  beautified,  most  glad.  Oh,  it  is  so  sad 
to  see  them  weep ;  to  feel  that  even  on  them  sorrow  hath  cast 
its  blight,  and  paled  the  cheek,  and  dimmed  the  laughing  eye, 
the  speaking  smile,  and  the  first  grief  in  such  as  these  is  agony 
indeed;  it  is  the  breaking  asunder  of  every  fcriner  joy. 
They  shrink  from  retrospection,  for  they  cannot  bear  to  feel 
they  are  not  now  as  then,  and  the  future  shares  to  them  the 
blackened  shadows  of  the  hopeless  present.  As  susceptible 
as  they  are  to  pleasure  so  are  they  to  pain ;  and  raised  far 
above  others  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  one,  so  is  their  grief 
doubled  in  comparison  with  those  of  more  happy,  because  more 
even  temperaments.  So  it  was  with  Emmeline;  and  her  mother 
felt  all  this  as  she  stood  beside  her,  watching  with  tearful 
sympathy  the  first  real  grief  of  her  darling  child.  Emmeline 
had  cast  herself  on  her  knees  beside  her  couch ;  she  had 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  while  the  sobs  that  burst  inces- 
santly from  her  swelling  bosom  shook  her  frail  figure  convul- 
sively ,  the  blue  veins  iu  her  throat  had  swelled  as  if  in  suffo- 
cation, and  her  fair  hair,  loosened  from  its  confinement  by  her 
agitation,  hung  wildly  around  her. 

"Emmeline,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  said,  gently  and  falteringly, 
but  her  child  heard  her  not,  and  she  twined  her  arm  around 
her.  and  tried  to  draw  her  towards  her. 

"My  own  darling  Emmeline,  speak  to  me ;  I  cannot  bea» 
to  see  you  thus.    Look  up,  love  ;  for  my  sake  calm  this  excited 
feeling." 

'•  May  I  not  even  weep  ?  Would  you  deny  me  that  poor 
comfort?"  burst  almost  passionately  from  the  lips  of  Emme- 
line, for  every  faculty  was  bewildered  in  that  suddenly  ex- 
cited woe,  She  looked  up ;  her  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  hag- 
gard, her  cheek  flushed,  and  the  veins  drawn  like  cords  acrosa 
her  brow. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  Weep :  would  your  mother  forbid  you  that  blessed  com- 
fort and  relief,  my  Emmeline.  Could  you  indeed  accuse  me  of 
such  cruelty  ?"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  bending  over  her  as 
she  spoke,  and  removing  from  those  flushed  temples  the  hair 
which  hung  heavy  with  moisture  upon  them,  and  as  she  did 
so,  Emineline  felt  the  tears  of  her  mother  fall  thick  and  fast 
on  her  own  scorching  brow.  She  started  from  her  knees, 
gazed  wildly  and  doubtingly  upon  her,  and  tottering  from 
exhaustion,  would  have  fallen,  had  not  Mrs.  Hamilton,  with  a 
sudden  movement,  received  her  \n  her  arms.  For  a  moment 
Em  incline  struggled  as  if  to  break  from  her  embrace,  Lut  then, 
with  a  sudden  transition  of  feeling,  clasped  hei  arms  convul- 
sively about  her  mother's  neck,  and  burst  into  a  long  and  vio- 
lent but  relieving  flood  of  tears. 

"  I  meant  never,  never  to  have  revealed  my  secret,"  she 
exclaimed,  in  a  voice  almost  inaudible,  as  her  mother,  seating 
her  on  a  couch  near  them,  pressed  her  to  her  heart,  and  per- 
mitted soiiie  minutes  to  pass  away  in  that  silence  of  sympathy 
which  to  the  afflicted  is  so  dear.  "  And  now  that  it  has  been 
wrung  from  me,  I  know  not  what  I  do  or  say.  Oh.  if  I  have 
spoken  aught  disrespectfully  to  you  or  papa  just  now,  I  meant 
it  not,  indeed  I  did  not ;  but  they  dared  to  speak  false  tales, 
and  1  could  not  sit  calmly  to  hear  them,"  she  added,  shuddering. 

"  There  was  nothing  in  your  words,  my  own  Jove,  to  give 
us  pain  with  regard  to  ourselves,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  in  hei 
most  soothing  tone,  as  again  and  again  she  pressed  her  quiver- 
ing lips  to  that  flushed  cheek,  and  tried  to  kiss  away  the  now 
streaming  tears.  "  Do  not  let  that  thought  add  to  your  unea- 
siness, my  own  darling." 

"  And  can  you  forgive  me.  mother?"  and  Emmeline  buried 
her  face  yet  more  closely  in  her  mother's  bosom. 

'•  Forgive  you,  Emmeline !  is  there  indeed  aught  in  your 
acquaintance  with  Arthur  Myrvin  which  demands  my  forgive- 
ness ?"  replied  her  mother,  in  a  tone  of  anxiety  and  almost 
^larm 

'•  Oh,  no,  no  !  but  you  may  believe  I  have  encouraged  these 
weak  emotions ;  that  I  have  wilfully  thought  on  them  till  I 
have  made  myself  thus  miserable  ;  that  I  have  called  for  his 
love— given  him  encouragement:  :'ndeed,  indeed  I  have  not.  I 
have  struggled  hard  to  obtain  forgetfulness — to  think  of  him 
no  more,  to  regain  happiness,  but  it  would  not  come.  I  feel — I 
know  I  can  never,  never  be  again  the  joyous  light-hearted  gir' 
that  I  was  once ;  all  feels  so  changed." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  325 

l:  Do  not  say  so,  my  own  love ;  this  is  but  the  language  of 
despondency,  now  too  naturally  your  own  :  but  permit  it  not 
to  gain  too  much  ascendency,  dearest.  Where  is  my  Emme- 
line's.firm,  devoted  faith  in  that  merciful  Father,  who  for  so 
many  years  has  gilded  her  lot  with  such  unchecked  happiness. 
Darker  clouds  are  now  indeed  for  a  time  around  you,  but  His 
blessing  will  remove  them,  .'ove  ;  trust  still  in  Him.'1 

Emmeline's  convulsive  sobs  were  somewhat  checked  ;  the 
fond  and  gentle  tones  of  sympathy  had  their  cTect  on  one  to 
whom  affection  never  pleaded  in  vain. 

"  And  why  have  you  so  carefully  concealed  the  cause  of 
the  sufferings  that  were  so  clearly  visible,  my  Emmeline  ?" 
continued  her  mother,  tenderly,  "  Could  that  fear  which  you 
once  avowed  in  a  letter  to  Mary,  have  mingled  in  your  affec- 
tion for  me?  Could  fear,  indeed,  have  kept  you  silent?  Can 
your  too  vivid  fancy  have  bid  you  imagine  I  should  reproach 
you,  or  refuse  my  sympathy  in  this  sad  trial?  Your  perse- 
verance in  active  employments,  your  strivings  for  cheerfulness, 
all  must,  indeed,  confirm  your  assertion,  that  you  have  not  en- 
couraged weakening  emotions.  I  believe  you,  my  own,  and  I 
believe,  too.  my  Emmeline  did  not  give  young  Myrvin  encour- 
agement. Look  up,  love,  and  tell  me  that  you  do  not  fear 
your  mother — that  you  do  not  deem  her  harsh." 

"  Harsh?  oh,  no,  no !"  murmured  the  poor  girl,  still  cling- 
ing to  her  neck,  as  if  she  feared  something  would  part  them. 
"  It  is  I  who  am  capricious,  fanciful,  miserable :  oh,  do  not 
heed  my  incoherent  words.  Mother,  dearest  mother,  oh,  let 
me  but  feel  that  you  still  love  me,  and  I  will  teach  my  heart 
to  be  satisfied  with  that." 

';  But  if  indeed  I  am  not  harsh,  tell  me  all.  my  Emmeline 
— tell  me  when  you  were  first  aware  you  loved  Arthur  Myrvin, 
all  that  has  passed  between  you.  I  promise  you  I  will  not  add. 
to  your  suffering  on  his  account  by  reproaches.  Confide  in 
the  affection  of  your  mother,  and  this  trial  will  not  be  so  hard 
to  bear." 

Struggling  to  obtain  composure  and  voice,  Emmeline 
obeyed,  and  faithfully  repeated  every  circumstance  connected 
with  her  and  Arthur,  with  which  our  readers  are  well  ac- 
quainted ;  touching  lightly,  indeed,  on  their  parting  interview, 
which  Mrs.  Hamilton  easily  perceived  could  not  be  recalled 
even  now.  though  some  months  had  passed  without  a  renewal 
of  the  distress  it  caused.  Her  recital  almost  unconsciously 
exalted  the  character  of  Arthur  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Hamilton, 


326  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

which  was  too  generous  and  kind  to  remain  untouched  by  coi> 
duct  so  honorable,  forbearing,  and  praiseworthy. 

"  Do  not  weep  any  more  for  the  cruel  charges  against  him, 
my  love,"  she  said,  with  soothing  tenderness,  as  Emmelinc'a 
half-checked  tears  burst  forth  again  as  she  spoke  of  the  agony 
she  in  secret  endured,  when  in  her  presence  his  character  was 
traduced.  "  Your  father  will  now  leave  no  means  untried  to 
discover  whether  indeed  they  are  true  or  false.  Insinuations 
and  reports  have  prejudiced  his  judgment  moie  than  is  his 
wont.  He  has  gone  now  to  Widow  Langford,  to  hear  her  tale 
against  Jefferies,  and  if  this  last  base  charge  he  has  brought 
against  Arthur  be  indeed  proved  against  himself,  it  will  be 
easy  to  convict  him  of  other  calumnies  ;.for  the  truth  of  this* 
once  made  evident,  it  is  clear  that  his  base  machinations  have 
been  the  secret  engines  of  the  prejudice  against  Myrvin,  for 
which  no  clear  foundation  has  ever  yet  been  discovered.  You 
will  not  doubt  your  father's  earnestness  in  this  proceeding,  my 
Emmeline,  and  you  know  him  too  well  to  believe  that  he 
would  for  one  moment  refrain  from  acknowledging  to  Mr. 
Myrvin  the  injustice  he  has  done  him,  if  indeed  it  prove  un- 
founded." 

"  And  if  his  character  be  cleared  from  all  stain — if  not  a 
whisper  taint  his  name,  and  his  true  excellence  be  known  to 
all — oh,  may  we  not  hope  ?  mother,  mother,  you  will  not  be  in- 
exorable ;  yov  will  not.  oh,  you  will  not  condemn  your  child  to 
misery?"  exclaimed  Emmeline,  in  a  tone  of  excitement, 
strongly  contrasting  with  the  hopelessness  which  had  breathed 
in  every  word  before ;  and,  bursting  from  her  mother's  detain- 
ing hold,  she  suddenly  knelt  before  her,  and  clasped  her  robe 
in  the  wildness  of  her  entreaty.  <;  You  will  not  refuse  to 
make  us  happy;  you  will  not  withhold  your  consent,  on  which 
alone  depends  the  future  happiness  of  your  Emmeline.  You, 
who  have  been  so  good,  so  kind,  so  fond, — oh,  you  will  not  sen- 
tence me  to  woe.  Mother,  oh,  speak  to  me  I  care  not  how 
many  years  I  wait:  say,  only  say,  that  if  his  character  be 
cleared  of  all  they  have  dared  to  cast  upon  it,  I  shall  one  day 
be  his.  Do  not  turn  from  me,  mother.  Oh,  bid  me  not  de- 
spond ;  and  yet,  and  yet,  because  he  is  poor,  oh,  would  you,  can 
you  condemn  me  to  despair  ?" 

"  Emmeline,  Emmeline,  do  not  wring  my  heart  by  these 
cruel  words,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  in  a  tone  of  such  deep 
distress,  that  Emmeline's  imploring  glance  sunk  before  it.  and 
feeling  there  was  \ndeed  no  hope,  her  weakened  frame  shook 


THE    MOTHEE.'S   RECOMPENSE.  327 

with  the  effort  to  restrain  the  bursting  tears.  "  Do  not  ask  me 
to  promise  this ;  do  not  give  me  the  bitter  pain  of  speaking 
that  which  you  feel  at  this  moment  will  only  add  to  your  un- 
happiness.  You  yourself,  by  the  words  you  have  repeated, 
behold  the  utter  impossibility  of  such  a  union.  TVhy,  why 
then  will  you  impose  on  me  the  painful  task  of  repeating  it? 
Could  I  consent  to  part  with  you  to  one  who  has  not  even  a 
settled  home  to  give  you,  whose  labors  scarcely  earn  sufficient 
to  maintain  himself?  You  know  not  all  the  evils  of  such  a 
union,  my  sweet  girl.  You  are  not  fitted  to  cope  with  poverty 
or  care,  to  bear  with  that  passionate  irritability  and  restless- 
ness which  characterize  young  Myrvin,  even  when  weightier 
charges  are  removed.  And  could  we  feel  ourselves  justirfed 
in  exposing  you  to  privations  and  sorrows,  which  our  cooler 
judgment  may  perceive,  though  naturally  concealed  from  the 
eye  of  affection  ?  Seldom,  very  seldom,  are  those  marriages 
happy  in  which  such  an  extreme  disparity  exists,  more  partic- 
ularly when,  as  in  this  case,  the  superiority  is  on  the  side  of 
the  wife.  I  know  this  sounds  like  cold  and  worldly  reasoning, 
my  Emmeline ;  I  know  that  this  warm,  fond  heart  revolts  in 
agony  from  every  word,  but  do  not,  do  not  think  me  cruel, 
love,  and  shrink  from  my  embrace.  How  can  I  implore  you, 
for  my  sake,  still  to  struggle  with  these  sad  feelings,  to  put 
every  effort  into  force  to  conquer  this  unhappy  Tove?  and  yet 
my  duty  bids  me  do  so ;  for,  oh,  I  cannot  part  with  you  for 
certain  poverty  and  endless  care.  Speak  to  me,  my  own  ;  pro- 
mise me  that  you  will  try  and  be  contented  with  your  father's 
exertions  to  clear  Arthur's  character  from  all  aspersions.  You 
will  not  ask  for  more  ?" 

There  was  a  Moment's  pause.  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  be- 
trayed in  every  word  the  real  distress  she  suffered  in  thug 
speaking,  when  the  gentle  pleading  of  her  woman's  heart  would 
have  bade  her  soothe  by  any  and  every  means  her  afflicted 
child ;  Emmeline  knew  this,  and  even  in  that  moment  she 
could  not  bear  to  feel  her  mother  grieved,  and  she  had  been 
the  cause.  Filial  devotion,  filial  duty,  for  a  few  minutes  strug- 
gled painfully  with  the  fervid  passion  which  shook  her  inmost 
soul ;  but  they  conquered,  and  when  she  looked  up,  her  tears 
were  checked,  and  only  the  deadly  paleness  of  the  cheek,  the 
quivering  of  the  lip  and  eye,  betrayed  the  deep  emotion  that 
still  prevailed  within. 

"  Be  not  thus  distressed  for  me,  my  dear,  my  too  indulgent 
mother,"  replied  Emmeline,  in  a  voice  that  struggled  to  ba 


S28  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

composed  and  firm,  though  bodily  weakness  defied  her  eflbrth. 
'•  I  meant  not  to  have  grieved  you,  and  yet  I  have  done  so. 
Oli,  let  not  my  foolish  words  give  you  pain,  you  whosa  love 
would,  I  know,  seek  to  spare  me  every  suffering.  My  brain 
feels  confused  and  burning  now.  and  I  know  not  what  I  say ; 
but  it  will  pass  away  soon,  and  then  I  will  try  to  be  all  you 
can  wish.  You  will  not.  I  know  you  will  not  be  so  cruel  as  to 
bid  me  wed  another,  and  that  knowledge  is  enougn.  Let  but 
his  character  be  cleared,  and  I  promise  you  I  will  use  every 
effort  to  be  content.  I  knew  that  it  was  hopeless.  Why,  oh, 
why  did  I  bid  your  lips  confirm  it !"  and  again  were  those  ach- 
ing eyes  and  brow  concealed  on  Mrs.  Hamilton's  shoulder, 
while  the  despairing  calmness  of  her  voice  sounded  even  more 
acutely  painful  to  her  mother  than  the  extreme  suffeiiug  it 
had  expressed  before. 

"  May  God  in  His  mercy  bless  you  for  this,  my  darling 
girl !"  escaped  almost  involuntarily  from  Mrs.  Hamilton's  lips, 
as  the  sweet  disposition  of  her  child  appeared  to  shine  forth 
brighter  than  ever  in  this  complete  surrender  of  her  dearest 
hopes  to  the  will  of  her  parents.  "  And  oh,  that  He  may 
soothe  and  comfort  you  will  mingle  in  your  mother's  prayers. 
Tell  me  but  one  thing  more,  my  own.  Have  you  never  heard 
from  this  young  man  since  you  parted  ?" 

"  He  wrote  to  me,  imploring  me  to  use  my  influence  with 
St.  Eval,  to  aid  his  obtaining  the  situation  of  tutor  to  Lord 
Louis,"  answered  Emineline.  "  He  did  not  allude  to  what  had 
passed  between  us;  his  letter  merely  contained  this  entreaty, 
as  if  he  would  thus  prove  to  me  that  his  intention  to  quit 
England,  and  seek  for  calmness  in  the  steady  performance  of 
active  duties,  was  not  mere  profession." 

"  Then  your  representations  were  the  origin  of  Eugene's 
interest  in  Arthur  ?"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  inquiringly. 
^  Emmeline  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"And  did  you  answer  his  letter?" 

"  No,  mamma ;  it  was  enough  for  me  and  for  him,  too,  his 
wishes  were  granted.  I  would  not  indulge  my  secret  wish  to 
do  so.  Neither  you  nor  papa,  nor  indeed  any  of  my  family, 
knew  what  had  passed  between  us.  Determined  as  I  was  tu 
struggle  for  the  conquest  of  myself,  I  did  not  imagine  in  keep- 
ing that  secret  I  was  acting  undutifully ;  but  had  I  written  to 
him,  or  cherished,  as  my  weak  fondness  bade  me  do,  his — his — 
why  should  I  hide  it — his  precious  letter,  my  conscience  would 
have  added  its  pangs  to  the  sufferings  already  mine.  While 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  329 

that  was  free  and  light,  I  could  still  meet  your  look  and  smile, 
and  return  your  kiss,  however  I  might  feel  my  heart  wag 
breaking;  but  if  I  had  so  deceived  yon,  so  disregarded  my 
duty,  as  to  enter  into  a  correspondence  with  him,  unknown  to 
you,  ol,  the  comfort  of  your  love  would  have  flown  from  me 
for  ever." 

''  And  had  my  Emmeline  indeed  sufficient  resolution  to 
destroy  that  letter  ?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hamilton,  surprise  ming- 
ling with  the  admiration  and  esteem,  which,  though  felt  by  a 
mother  for  a  child,  might  well  be  pardoned. 

"  It  was  my  duty,  mother,  and  I  did  it,"  replied  Emmeline, 
with  a  simplicity  that  filled  the  eyes  of  her  mother  with  tears. 
*;  Could  I  indeed  forget  those  principles  of  integrity  which, 
from  my  earliest  infancy,  you  have  so  carefully  instilled?" 

Mrs.  Hamilton  clasped  her  to  her  bosom,  and  imprinted 
kisses  of  the  fondest  affection  on  her  colorless  and  burning 
forehead. 

'•  Well,  indeed,  are  my  cares  repaid,"  she  exclaimed. 
•*  Oh,  that  my  affection  could  soothe  your  sorrows  as  sweetly 
as  your  gentle  yet  unwavering  adherent  to  filial  love  and 
duty  have  comforted  me.  Will  you,  for  my  sake,  my  own 
love,  continue  these  painful  yet  virtuous  efforts  at  self-con- 
quest, which  you  commenced  merely  from  a  sense  of  duty? 
Will  you  not  glad  your  mother  s  heart,  and  let  me  have  the 
comfort  of  beholding  you  once  more  ray  own  cheerful,  happy 
Emmeline?" 

'•  I  will  try,"  murmured  Emmeline,  struggling  to  smile ; 
but  oh.  it  was  so  unlike  herself,  so  lustreless  and  faint,  that 
Mrs.  Hamilton  hastily  turned  away  to  hide  emotion.  The 
dressing-bell  at  that  instant  sounded,  and  Emmeline  looked 
an  entreaty  to  which  her  lips  appeared  unwilling  to  give 
words.  Her  mother  understood  it. 

'•  I  will  not  ask  you  to  join  us  at  dinner,  love.  Do  not 
look  so  beseechingly,  you  will  recover  this  agitation  sooner 
and  better  alone;  and  so  much  confidence  have  you  compel- 
led me  to  feel  in  you,"  she  added,  trying  to  smile  and  speak 
playfully,  "  that  I  will  not  ask  you  to  make  an  exertion  to 
which  you  do  not  feel  equal,  even  if  you  wish  to  be  alone  the 
whole  evening.  I  know  my  Emmeline's  solitary  moments  will 
not  be  spent  in  vain  repinings." 

"  You  taught  me  whom  to  seek  for  comfort  and  relief  in 
my  childish  sorrows,  and  I  will  not,  I  do  not  forget  that 
lesson  now,  mother,"  answered  Emmeline,  faintly  yet  ex- 


B30  THE   MOTHERS    RECOMPENSE.    * 

pressively.  "  Let  me  be  alone,  indeed,  a  few  hours,  and  if  1 
can  but  conquer  this  feeling  of  exhaustion,  I  will  join  you  at 
tea." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  sile*uly  embraced  and  left  her.  with  a  heart 
swelling  with  fond  emotion,  as  she  thought  on  the  gentle  yet 
decided  character  of  her  child,  who  from  her  infancy  Lad 
scarcely  ever  caused  her  pain,  still  less  anxiety.  Now  indeed 
solicitude  was  hers,  for  it  was  evident,  alas !  too  evident,  that 
Emmeline's  affections  were  unalterably  engaged;  that  this 
was  not  the  mere  fervor  of  the  moment,  a  passion  that  would 
pass  away  with  the  object,  but  one  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  felt 
forebodingly  would  still  continue  to  exist.  Emmeline's  was 
not  a  disposition  to  throw  off  feelings  such  as  these  liglitly 
and  easily.  Often  had  her  mother  inwardly  trembled  when 
she  thought  of  such  a  sentiment  influencing  her  Emmeline, 
and  now  the  dreaded  moment  had  come.  How  was  she  to  act? 
She  could  not  consent  to  a  union  such  as  this  would  be. 
Few  mothers  possessed  less  ambition  than  Mrs.  Hamilton,  few 
were  so  indulgent,  so  devoted  to  her  children,  but  to  comply 
with  the  poor  girl's  ^•erish  wishes  would  be  indeed  but  folly. 
Arthur  had  engaged  himself  to  remain  with  Lord  Louis  Lyle 
during  the  period  of  his  residence  in  Germany,  which  was  at 
that  time  arranged  to  be  three  years.  The  future  to  young 
Myrvin  must,  she  knew,  be  a  blank ;  years  would  in  all  proba- 
bility elapse  ere  he  could  obtain  an  advantageous  living  and 
means  adequate  to  support  a  wife  and  family  ;  and  would  it 
not  be  greater  cruelty  to  bid  Emmeline  live  on  in  lingering 
and  sickening  hope,  than  at  once  to  appeal  to  her  reason,  and 
entreat  her,  by  the  affection  she  bore  her  parents,  to  achieve 
this  painful  conquest  of  herself,  as  their  consent  could  not  be 
given.  They  felt  sad,  indeed,  thus  to  add  to  the  suffering  of 
their  afflicted  child,  yet  it  was  the  better  way.  for  had  they 
promised  to  consent  that,  when  he  could  support  her,  she 
should  be  his  own.  it  might  indeed  bring  relief  for  the  mo- 
ment, but  it  would  be  but  the  commencement  of  a  life  of 
misery  ;  her  youth  would  fade  away  in  that  sickening  anguish 
of  hope  deferred,  more  "bitter  because  more  lingering  than  the 
absolute  infliction  of  brief  though  certain  suffering.  The 
hearts  of  both  parents  grieved  as  they  thought  on  all  she  Iiad 
endured,  and  for  a  brief  period  must  still  endure,  but  their 
path  of  duty  once  made  clear,  they  swerved  not  from  it,  how' 
»ver  it  might  pain  themselves. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  right.     Emmeline's  solitary  moments 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  331 

were  not  spent  in  vain  repinings:  she  struggled  to  compose 
her  thoughts,  to  cast  the  burden  of  her  sorrows  upon  Him, 
who  in  love  and  mercy  had  ordained  them ;  and  she  did  so 
with  that  pure.  ,that  simple,  beautiful  faith  so  peculiarly  her 
own,  and  a  calm  at  length  stole  over  her  wearied  spirit  and 
exhausted  frame,  soothing  her,  even  to  sleep,  with  the  words 
of  prayer  yet  lingering  on  her  lips.  She  awoke,  after  above 
an  hour's  slumber,  composed  in  mind,  but  still  feverish  in 
body.  Prayer  had  brought  its  blessed  influence,  but  that 
calm  was  more  the  quiescence  proceeding  from  over-excite- 
ment thar  natural  feeling ;  she  felt  it  so,  and  dreaded  the  re- 
turn of  mental  agony,  as  bodily  sufferers  await  the  periodical 
paroxysms  of  pain.  She  resolved  not  to  give  way  to  the  ex- 
haustion she  still  felt.  She  rejoined  the  family  at  tea,  pale 
indeed,  but  perfectly  composed,  and  even  faintly  smiling  on 
her  father,  who,  hastily  rising  as  she  languidly  and  unexpected- 
ly entered  the  room,  carried  her  tenderly  in  his  arms  to  a 
couch,  compelled  her  to  lie  down,  and  bending  over  her  with 
that  soothing  fondness  which  she  so  much  loved,  retained  his 
seat  by  her  side  all  the  evening,  though  participating  and  fre- 
quently inducing  her  to  join  in  the  conversation  on  various 
topics,  which  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Ellen  seemed  determined  to 
maintain.  Once  during  that  evening  Emmeline  had  looked 
up  beseechingly  in  her  father's  face,  and  that  touching,  silent 
eloquence  told  all  she  would  have  said,  far  more  expressively 
than  works. 

-  Justice  shall  be  done,  my  Emmeline."  he  replied,  gently 
drawing  her  to  him,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  that  was  heard  by 
her  alone.  "  I  have  been  harsh,  prejudiced,  as  cruelly  unjust 
as  blindly  imposed  on  by  a  comparative  stranger ;  but  I 
promise  you,  all  shall  be  impartially  considered.  I  have  done 
this  unfortunate  young  man  much  wrong,  for  I  should  have  re- 
collected his  father  has  many  enemies,  and  this  may  be  one  of 
them,  seeking  from  revenge  to  injure  him.  I  am  grateful  to 
Arthur  Myrvin  for  his  forbearance  towards  myself,  for  his  truly 
noble  conduct  towards  you — right  principles  alone  could  have 
dictated  both.  Mrs.  Langford  has  confirmed  all  you  said,  and 
informed  me  of  many  little  circumstances  which  if.  on  a  strict 
examination.  I  find  are  founded  on  truth,  Jefferies1  character 
and  base  designs  will  not  be  difficult  to  fathom.  Myrvin's 
character  shall  be  cleared  from  suspicion,  if  it  be  in  my  power, 
my  dear  girl;  rest  as  confident  on  my  promise  to  that  effect. as 
I  do  on  yours,  that,  this  accomplished,  you  iviU  ask  'no  more." 


332  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Emmeline's  head  rested  on  his  shoulder ;  he  had  marked 
the  relief,  the  gratitude  her  sweet  face  expressed  during  his 
first  words,  but  as  he  ceased,  her  eyes  were  hid  upon  his  bosom, 
and  he  could  read  no  more.  It  was  well  for  the  steadiness  of 
his  determination  that  it  was  so.  for  the  wretchedness  imprint- 
ed on  every  feature,  every  line  of  her  countenance,  at  his  con- 
cluding sentence,  would  have  wrung  his  soul. 

Tliough  persuaded  by  her  parents  to  retire  early,  Emme- 
line  did  not  do  so  till  the  usual  hour  of  separation  after 
prayers.  To  Ellen's  silently-observing  eye  she  appeared  to 
shrink  from  being  alone,  and  this  thought  haunted  her  so 
incessantly,  that,  instead  of  composing  hcrselt  to  rest,  she 
softly  traversed  the  short  distance  which  separated  their 
apartments,  and  entered  her  cousin's  room. 

Emrneline  was  alone,  undressed,  a  large  wrapping  robe 
flung  carelessly  over  her  night  attire,  but  instead  of  reading, 
which  at  that  hour,  and  in  that  guise,  she  generally  did,  that 
the  word  of  God  might  be  the  last  book  on  which  she  looked 
ere  she  sought  her  rest,  she  was  leaning  abstractedly  over  the 
fire,  seated  on  a  low  stool,  her  hands  pressed  on  her  temples, 
while  the  flickering  flame  cast  a  red  and  unnatural  glare  on 
those  pale  cheeks.  Ellen  advanced,  but  her  cousin  moved  not 
at  her  entrance,  nor  even  when  she  knelt  by  her  side,  and 
twined  her  arms  around  her. 

"  Will  you  not  go  to  bed,  denrest  Emmeline  ?  it  is  so  late, 
and  you  have  been  so  fearfully  agitated  to-day.  Look  up  and 
speak  to  me,  my  own  dear  cousin,  or  I  shall  fancy  you  are 
hurt  with  me  for  permitting  so  many  hours  to  pass  without 
coming  near  you,  when  I  knew  you  were  in  suffering.  Oh, 
you  know  not  how  I  longed  to  come,  but  my  aunt  said  you 
had  entreated  to  be  left  alone.  I  stood  for  some  minutes  by 
your  door,  but  all  was  so  still,  I  thought  I  should  disturb 
you  did  I  enter.  You  do  not  accuse  me  of  unkindness.  Em- 
meline ?" 

Eoused  by  her  cousin's  affectionate  words  and  imploring 
voice,  Emmeline  resisted  not  her  embrace,  but  clung  to  her 
in  silence. 

"  You  are  ill,  you  are  very  ill,  dearest,  dearest  Emmeline ; 
do  not  sit  up  thus ;  for  my  sake,  for  your  mother's  sake,  try 
if  sleep  will  not  ease  this  aching  head,"  exclaimed  Ellen,  much 
alarmed  at  the  burning  heat  and  quick  throbbing  of  Emme- 
line's forehead,  as  it  rested  on  her  shoulder. 

« I  cannot  sleep,  Ellen,  it  is  useless  to  attempt  it ;  I  feel 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  333 

as  if  iny  eyes  would  never  close  again  ;  as  if  years  had  passed 
over  my  head  since  last  night.  I  thought  I  could  not  bo 
more  miserable  than  I  was  when — when  we  parted,  and  as  I 
have  been  since  ;  but  that  was  nothing — nothing  to  this.  I 
thought  I  had  not  indulged  in  hope,  for  I  knew  that  it  was 
vain,  but  now,  now  I  feel  I  must  have  done  so.  and  it  is  its 
utter,  utter  annihilation  that  bows  me  to  the  jarth.  Oh,  why 
am  I  so  changed.  I  who  was  once  so  glad,  so  free,  so  full  of 
hope  and  happiness,  looking  forward  to  days  as  bright  as  those 
that  fled  ;  and  now  what  am  I,  and  what  is  life?  a  thing  from 
wuich  all  happiness  has  flown,  but  clothed  in  darker  shadows, 
from  its  contrast  with  the  past." 

'•  Oh,  do  not  say  so.  dearest."  replied  Ellen,  effected  almost 
to  tears,  by  the  desparing  tone  in  which  these  words  were  said. 
"The  blessing,  the  comfort  of  your  parents,  your  brothers,  of 
all  who  know  you,  as  you  are.  do  not  say  your  life  will  bo 
without  joy  ;  its  most  cherished  flower,  its  most  precious  gom 
may  have  passed  away,  but  others  will  spring  up  in  time,  to 
fill  that  yearning  void.  You,  whose  presence  ever  brings 
with  it  such  enjoyment  to  others,  oh,  you  too  will  be  blessed. 
You  cannot  long  continue  miserable,  when  you  feel  the  power 
you  have  of  making  so  many  of  your  fellow  creatures  happy. 
You  are  ill,  exhausted  now,  and  therefore  all  around  you  looks 
so  full  of  gloom  and  pain,  yet  when  this  shall  have  passed, 
you  will  not  reject  the  comfort  that  remains.  Have  you  not 
an  approving  conscience  to  support  you,  the  consciousness 
that  you  have  proved  your  love  and  gratitude  to  the  parents 
you  so  fondly  love?  and  think  you  He,  who  looks  with  an  eye 
of  favor  on  the  faintest  effort  of  his  creatures,  made  for  His 
eake.  and  in  His  spirit,  will  permit  this  strength  to  pass 
unaided?  No,  dearest,  He  will  assist  and  strengthen  you; 
He  car  +aKe  even  from  this,  bitter  trial  its  sting." 

"I  know  it.  I  feel  it."  murmured  Emnieline,  still  clinging 
to  her  cousin,  as  if  she  found  comfort  in  her  presence  and  her 
words.  '•  I  know  well  that  this  trial  in  itself  is  as  nothing 
compared  with  those  endured  at  this  very  hour  by  thousands 
of  my  fellow-creatures,  and  knowing  this  makes  me  the  more 
wretched,  for  if  I  am  thus  repining  and  miserable,  how  dare  1 
hope  my  prayers  will  be  heard?" 

'•  Yet  doubt  it  not,  my  own  Emeline ;  our  Father  in 
heaven  judgeth  not  as  man  judgeth.  Man  might  condemn 
this  appearance  of  weakness  in  you  now,  but  God  will  not 
for  he  knows  the  individual  strength  of  His  creatures,  and  in 


334  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

love  and  mercy  chasteneth  accordingly.  He  knoweth  this  is  a 
severe  trial  for  one,  young  and  gentle  as  you  are ;  and  with 
your  heart  lifted  up  to  Him.  as  I  know  it  is,  doubt  not  that 
your  prayers  will  be  heard  and  this  pang  softened  in  His  own 
time.  I  fear  my  words  sound  cold ;  but  oh,  would  that  I. 
could  comfort  you,  dearest,"  and  tears  stood  trembling  in  El 
Jen's  eyes. 

h  And  you  do  comfort  me,  Ellen ;  oh,  I  do  not  feel  so  very 
wretcfied  with  you  near  me  as  I  do  alone,  though  even  you 
cannot  guess  this  extent  of  suffering  ;  you  know  not  what  it 
is  to  love,  and  yet  to  feel  there  is  no  hope  ;  no — none,"  she  re' 
pcated  in  a  low  murmuring  tone,  as  if  to  convince  herself  that 
there  was  indeed  none,  as  she  had  said  ;  and  it  was  not  strango 
that  thus  engrossed,  she  marked  not  that  a  slight  slmddei 
passed  through  her  cousin's  frame  at  her  last  words  ;  that  El- 
len's cheek  suddenly  vied  in  its  deadly  paleness  with  her  own ; 
that  the  tears  dried  up.  as  if  frozen  in  those  large,  dark  eyes, 
which  were  fixed  upon  her  with  an  expression  she  would,  had 
she  seen  it,  have  found  difficult  to  understand  ;  that  the  palo 
lip  quivered  for  a  few  minutes,  so  as  entirely  to  prevent  her 
speaking  as  she  had  intended. 

'•  Go  to  bed,  dearest  Emmeline,  indeed  you  must  not  sit  up 
longer,"  Ellen  said  at  length,  as  she  folded  her  arms  fondly 
round  her  and  kissed  her  cheek.  ''  When  I  was  ill,  you  ever 
wished  to  dictate  to  me,"  she  continued,  playfully,  ':  and  I  was 
always  good  and  obedient ;  will  you  not  act  up  to  your  own 
principle  and  obey  me  now  ?  think  of  your  mother,  dearest, 
how  anxious  she  will  be  if  you  are  ill.  I  will  not  leave  you 
till  you  are  asleep." 

"  No,  no,  dea;*  Ellen,  I  will  not  so  abuse  your  kindness  ;  I 
•will  go  to  bed.  I  have  been  wrong  to  sit  up  thus,  when  I  pro- 
mised mamma  to  do  all  I  could  to— but,  indeed,  you  must  not 
stay  with  me,  Ellen.  I  feel  so  exhausted,  I  may  perhaps  sleep 
sooner  than  I  expect ;  but  even  if  I  do  not.  you  must  not  sit 
•  up." 

"  Never  mind,  my  love,  let  me  see  you  obedient,  and  I  will 
perhaps  learn  the  same  lesson,"  replied  Ellen,  playfully,  though 
her  cheek  retained  its  suddenly-acquired  paleness.  Emmeline 
no  longer  resisted,  and  Ellen  quickly  had  the  relief  of  seeing 
her  in  bed,  and  her  eyes  closed,  as  if  in  the  hope  of  obtaining 
sleep  ;  but  after  a  few  minutes  they  again  opened,  and  seeing 
Ellen  watching  her,  she  said — 

"  You  had  better  leave  me,  Ellen,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  sleep 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  335 

If  I  think  you  arc  watching  me,  and  losing  your  own  night's 
rest.  I  am  not  ill,  my  dear  cousin,  I  am  only  miserable,  and 
that  will  pass  away  perhaps  for  a  short  tiuic  again,  as  it  did 
this  afternoon." 

Ellen  again  kissed  her  and  closed  the  curtains,  obeying  her 
so  far  as  to  retire  to  her  room,  but  not  to  bed ;  she  was  much 
too  uneasy  to  do  so.  Emmeline  had  been  in  very  delicate 
health  for  some  months,  and  it  appeared  to  her  observant  eyes 
and  mind,  that  now  the  cause  for  her  exertion  was  removed, 
by  the  discovery  of  her  long-treasured  secret,  that  health  had 
really  given  way,  and  she  was  actually  ill  in  body  as  well  as 
mind.  The  burning  heat  of  her  forehead  and  hand,  the  quick 
pulsation  of  her  temples,  had  alarmed  her  as  predicting  fever  j 
and  Ellen,  with  that  quiet  resolution  and  prompt  decision, 
which  now  appeared  to  form  such  prominent  traits  in  her  char- 
acter, determined  on  returning  to  her  cousin's  room  as  soon  as 
she  thought  she  had  fallen  asleep,  and  remain  there  during  the 
night ;  that,  if  she  were  restless,  uneasy,  or  wakeful,  she 
might,  by  her  presence,  be  some  comfort,  and  if  these  feverish 
symptoms  continued,  be  in  readiness  to  send  for  Mr.  Maitland 
at  the  first  dawn  of  morning,  without  alarming  her  aunt. 

"  You  are  not  formed  for  sorrow,  my  poor  Emmeline,"  she 
said  internally,  as  she  prepared  herself  for  her  night's  visit  by 
assuming  warmer  clothing  '•  Oh.  that  your  grief  may  speedily 
pass  away  ;  I  cannot  bear  to  see  one  so  formed  for  joy  as  you 
are  grieved.  My  own  sorrows  I  can  bear  without  shrinkingj 
without  disclosing  by  one  sign  what  I  am  internally  suffering. 
I  have  been  nerved  from  my  earliest  years  to  trial,  and  it 
would  be  strange  indeed  did  I  not  seem  as  you  believe  me.  1 
know  not  what  it  is  to  love.  /  know  not  the  pang  of  that  ut- 
ter hopelessness  which  bows  my  poor  cousin  to  the  earth.  Ah, 
Emiiiuliiie.  you  know  not  such  hopelessness  as  mine,  gloomy  as 
are  your  prospects  ;  you  can  claim  the  sympathy,  the  affection, 
the  consolation,  of  all  those  who  are  dear  to  you  ;  there  is  no 
need  to  hide  your  love,  ill-fated  as  it  is,  for  it  is  returned — you 
are  beloved  ;  and  I,  my  heart  must  bleed  in  secret,  for  no  such 
mitigation  attends  its  loss  of  peace.  I  dare  not  seek  for  sym- 
pathy, or  say  I  love  :  but  why — why  am  I  encouraging  these 
•thoughts?"  and  she  started  as  if  some  one  could  have  heard 
her  scarcely  audible  soliloquy.  "  It  is  woman's  lot  to  suffer — 
man's  is  to  «c',  woman's  to  bear  ;  and  such  must  be  mine,  and 
in  silence,  for  even  the  sympathy  of  my  dearest  relative  I  dare 
not  ask.  Oh,  wherefore  do  I  feel  it  shame  to  love  one  so  good, 


336  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

BO  superior,  so  holy  ?  because,  because  he  does  not  love  me, 
save  with  a  brother's  love  ;  and  I  know  he  loves  another." 

The  slight  frame  of  the  orphan  shook  beneath  that  inward 
struggle  ;  there  were  times,  in  her  hours  of  solitude,  when 
such  thoughts  would  come,  spite  of  every  effort  to  expel  them, 
and  there  was  only  one  way  to  obtain  that  self-control  she  so 
much  needed,  so  continually  exercised,  till  it  became  a  second 
nature.  She  became  aware  her  feelings  had  obtained  undue 
ascendency,  and,  sinking  on  her  knees,  remained  absorbed  in 
prayer,  fervent  and  heartfelt,  truly  the  outpourings  of  a  con- 
trite and  trusting  spirit,  confident  in  the  power  and  mercy  to 
which  she  appealed.  That  anguish  passed  ere  she  arose,  and 
every  sign  of  agitation  had  left  her  countenance  and  voice  as 
she  put  her  resolution  into  action,  and  returned  to  her  cousin. 

Emmeline  had  awoke  from  her  brief  and  troubled  slumbers, 
more  restless  and  feverish  than  when  she  had  first  sought  her 
couch  ;  and,  suffering  as  she  was  from  that  nervous  and  anx- 
ious state  peculiar  to  approaching  fever,  the  poor  girl  no  longer 
resisted  Ellen's  evident  determination,  and  clasping  her  hand 
between  her  own,  now  burning  with  fever,  continually  thanked 
her,  in  broken  and  feeble  accents,  for  remaining  with  her,  as- 
suring her  she  did  not  feel  so  ill  or  as  unhappy  as  she  should 
have  done  had  she  been  alone.  Anxious  as  she  was,  Ellen 
would  not  arouse  her  aunt,  but  at  the  first  break  of  day  she 
softly  entered  the  housekeeper's  room, .arid  succeeded  in  arous- 
ing without  alarming  her,  informed  her  of  Emmeline's  restless 
state,  and  implored  tier  to  send  at  once  for  Mr.  Maitland. 
Hastily  rising.  Ellis  accompanied  Ellen  to  her  cousin's  room, 
and  instantly  decided  on  complying  with  her  request.  The 
household  were  already  on  the  alert,  and  a  servant  was  speedily 
despatched  ;  but,  relieved  as  she  was  on  this  point,  Ellen  would 
not  comply  with  the  good  housekeeper's  request  to  repose  her- 
self for  a  few  hours  ;  she  had  resolved  not  to  relinquish  her 
post  by  the  bedside  of  thu  young  sufferer  to  any  save  her  aunt 
herself.  Ellis  desisted,  for  a  word  from  her  favorite,  almost 
her  darling,  as  Ellen  from  many  circumstances  had  become, 
was  to  her  always  sufficient. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Mr.  Maitland  met  at  Emmeline's  door, 
to  the  astonishment,  and,  at  first,  alarm  of  the  former — an 
alarm  which  subsided  into  comparative  relief,  as  she  listened 
to  Ellen's  hurried  tale,  although  anxiety  to  a  very  high  degree 
remained,  and  with  some  reason,  for  Ellen's  fears  were  not 
unfounded.  Emmeline  a  fever  rapidly  and  painfully  increased, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  337 

and  for  a  week  her  parents  hung  over  her  couch  almost  de- 
spairing of  her  recovery  ;  their  fond  hearts  almost  breaking, 
as  they  heard  her  sweet  voice,  in  the  wild  accent  of  delirious 
intervals,  calling  aloud  on  Arthur,  and  beseeching  their  con- 
sent and  blessing  to  restore  her  to  health ;  and  scarcely  less 
painful  was  it  in  her  lucid  hours  to  see  her  clasp  her  mother's 
hands  repeatedly,  and  murmur,  in  a  voice  almost  inarticulate 
from  weakness — 

"  Do  not,  be  anxious  or  grieved  for  me,  my  own  dear  mam- 
ma, I  shall  soon  get  well,  and  be  your  happy  Emmeline  again, 
I  cannot  be  miserable  when  I  have  you  and  papa  and  Ellen  to 
love  me  so  tenderly,"  and  then  she  would  cling  to  her  mother's 
neck,  and  kiss  her  till  she  would  sink  to  sleep  upon  her  bosom, 
as  in  infancy  and  childhood  she  had  so  often  done  ;  and  dearer 
than  ever  did  that  gentle  girl  become,  in  these  hours  of  suffer- 
ing, to  all  who  had  loved  her  so  fondly  before  ;  they  had 
deemed  it  almost  impossible  that  affection  could  in  any  way 
be  increased,  and  yet  it  was  so.  Strange  must  be  that  heart 
which  can  behold  a  being  such  as  Emmeline  cling  to  it.  as  if 
its  protection  and  its  love  were  now  all  that  bound  her  to 
earth,  and  still  remain  unmoved  and  cold.  Affection  is  ever 
strengthened  by  dependence — dependence  at  least  like  this  ; 
and  there  was  something  peculiarly  touching  in  Emmeline's 
present  state  of  mental  weakness.  Her  parents  felt,  as  they 
gazed  on  her,  that  they  had  occasioned  the  anguish  which  h,ad 
prostrated  her  on  a  bed  of  sickness  ;  and  yet  their  child  clung 
to  them  as  if,  in  the  intensity  of  her  affection  for  them,  and 
theirs  for  her,  she  would  strive. to  forget  her  unhappy  love, 
and  be  once  more  happy. 

Tiire  rolled  heavily  by,  and  some  few  weeks  passed,  ere 
Emmeline  was  sufficiently  convalescent  to  leave  her  room,  end 
then  her  pallid  features  and  attenuated  form  were  such  con- 
stant and  evident  proofs  of  that  mental  as  well  as  bodily  fever, 
that  Mrs.  Hamilton  could  not  look  on  her  without  pain.  She 
was  still  inwardly  restless  and  uneasy,  though  evidently  strug- 
gling for  cheerfulness,  and  Mr.  Maitland,to  whom  some  ncces- 
Bary  particulars  of  her  tale  had  been  told,  gave  as  his  opinion, 
that  some  secret  anxiety  still  rested  on  her  mind,  which  would 
bo  aiuch  better  removed  ;  the  real  cause  of  that  solicitude  her 
parents  very  easily  penetrated.  Mr.  Hamilton,  fearing  the 
effects  of  excitement  in  her  still  very  delicate  state,  had 
refrained  from  telling  her  all  he  had  accomplished  in  y^ung 
Myrvin's  favor  during  her  sickness,  but  on  hearing  Mr.  Mait- 


338  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

land's  report,  her  parents  both  felt  assured  it  was  for  that 
information  she  pined,  and  therefore  determined  on  instantly 
giving  her  relief. 

It  \vas  with  the  utmost  tenderness  and  caution  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton alluded  to  the  subject,  and  seating  himself  by  lier  couch, 
playfully  asked  her  if  she  would  promise  him  to  get  well  the 
sooner,  if  he  gratified  her  by  the  pleasing  intelligence  that 
Arthur  Myrviu's  character  was  cleared,  that  his  enemy  had 
been  discovered,  his  designs  exposed,  and  himsell  .obliged  to 
leave  the  village,  and  the  whole  population  were  now  as  vio- 
lently, prejudiced  in  Arthur's  favor,  as  they  had  formerly  been 
against  him ;  provoked  also  with  themselves  for  their  blind 
folly  in  receiving  and  encouraging  the  idle  reports  propagated 
against  him,  not  one  of  which  they  now  perceived  were  suffi- 
ciently well  .founded  to  stand  before  an  impartial  statement 
and  accurate  examination. 

Had  her  parents  doubted  what  had  weighed  on  Emmeline's 
mind,  the  sudden  light  beaming  in  those  saddened  eyes,  the 
flush  kindling  on  those  pale  cheeks,  the  rapid  movement  with 
which  she  caught  her  father's  hand,  and  looked  in  his  face,  as 
if  f°arful  he  would  deceive  her,  all  these  .ninute  but  striking  cir- 
cumstances must  have  betrayed  the  truth.  In  a  voice  almost 
inarticulate  from  powerful  emotion,  she  implored  him  to  tell 
her  every  particular,* and  tenderly  he  complied. 

He  had  followed,  he  said,  her  advice,  and  confronted 
Nurse  Langford  with  the  unprincipled  man  who  had  dared 
accuse  a  fellow-creature  of  a  crime  in  reality  committed  by 
himself,  and  reckless  as  he  was,  lie  had  shrunk  in  guilt  and 
shame  before  her  accusation,  which  was  indeed  the  accusation 
of  the  dying,  and  avowing  himself  the  real  perpetrator  of  the 
sin,  offered  her  a  large  bribe  for  secrecy,  which,  as  might  be 
expected,  the  widow  indignantly  refused.  It  was  easy  to  per- 
ceive, his  arts  had  worked  on  the  old  woman,  Mary's  grand- 
mother, to  believe  him  her  friend  and  Arthur  her  foe;  the 
poor  old  creature's  failing  intellect  assisted  his  plans,  while  the 
reports  he  had  insidiously  circulated  against,  the  unfortunate 
young  man  also  confirmed  his  tale.  Little  aware  that  the 
\V  idow  Langford -had  been  almost  a  mother  to  the  poor  girl 
hia  villany  had  ruined,  and  that  she  was  likely  to  have  heard 
the  truth,  being  quite  unconscious  she  had  attended  her  dying 
moments,  he  published  this  falsehood,  without  any  feeling  of 
remorse  or  shame,  hoping,  by  so  doing,  effectually  to  serve  his 
employers,  effect  the  disgrace  of  Myrvin,  and  completely 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  330 

screen  himself.  Mrs.  Langford  now  found  it  was  time  indeed 
for  her  to  come  forward  and  perform  her  promise  to  Emmeliue 
by  proving  young  Myrvin's  innocence,  but  hesitated  how  to 
commence.  She  was  therefore  both  relieved  and  pleased  at 
the  entrance  and  inquiries  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  and  promised  to 
obey  his  directions  faithfully,  only  imploring  him  to  clear  Mr. 
Myrvin's  character,  and  expel  Farmer  Jefferies  from  the  vil- 
lage, which,  from  the  time  of  his  settling  there,  she  said,  had 
been  one  scene  of  anarchy  and  confusion  ;  frankly  avowing,  in 
answer  to  a  question  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  that  it  was  for  Miss 
Emmeline's  sake  she  was  so  anxious;  she  was  sure  she  was 
interested  in  Mr.  Myrvin's  fate,  and  therefore  she  had  men- 
tioned the  unhappy  fate  of  poor  Mary  Brookes,  to  prove  to  her 
the  young  man  had  attended  to  his  duty. 

Many  other  startling  proofs  of  Jefferies'  evil  conduct  had 
the  good  widow,  by  silent  but  watchful  attention,  been  enabled 
to  discover,  as  also  convincing  evidence  that  the  young  curate 
had  not  been  so  neglectful  or  faulty  as  he  had  been  reported. 
All  her  valuable  information  she  now  imparted  to  her  master, 
to  be  used  by  him  in  any  way  his  discretion  might  point  out, 
promising  to  be  ever  ready  at  the  slightest  notice  to  prove  all 
she  had  alleged.  Mr.  Hamilton  carefully  examined  every 
circumstance,  reflected  for  a  brief  period  on  his  mode  of  action, 
and  finally,  assembling  all  the  principal  inhabitants  around 
him,  in  the  public  school-room  of  the  village,  laid  before  them 
all  the  important  facts  he  had  collected,  and  besought  their 
impartial  judgment.  He  owned,  he  said,  that  he  too  had  been 
prejudiced  against  Mr.  Myrvin,  whose  life,  while  among  them, 
many  circumstances  had  combined  to  render  unhappy,  but  that 
now,  he  heartily  repented  his  injustice,  for  he  felt  convinced 
the  greater  part  of  what  had  been  alleged  against  him  was 
fall  e.  Those  evil  reports  he  proved  had  all  originated  from 
the  machinations  of  Jefferies,  and  he  implored  them  to  consider 
whether  they  could  still  regard  the  words  of  one,  against  whom 
so  much  evil  had  now  been  proved,  as  they  had  formerly  done, 
or  could  they  really  prove  that  their  young  curate  had  in  iruth 
been  guilty  of  the  misdemeanors  with  which  he  had  been 
charged. 

Mr.  Howard,  who  was  present,  seconded  his  words,  ae 
knowledging  that  he  too  had  been  prejudiced,  and  adding, 
that  he  could  not  feel  satisfied  till  he  had  avowed  this  truth, 
and  asked  his  young  friend's  pardon  for  the  injury  he  had 
done  him. 


340  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Nothing  is  more  sudden  and  complete  than  changes  in 
popular  feeling.  The  shameful  act  of  Jefferies,  in  casting  on 
the  innocent  the  stigma  of  shame  and  crime  which  was  hig 
own,  was  quite  enough  for  the  honest  and  simple  villagers. 
At  once  they  condemned  themselves  (which  perhaps  they 
might  not  have  been  quite  so  ready  to  do,  had  not  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton and  their  rector  shown  them  the  example),  and  not  only 
defended  and  completely  exculpated  Myrvin.  but  in  an  in- 
credibly short  space  of  time,  so  many  anecdotes  of  the  young 
man's  performance  of  his  duty  were  collected,  that  bad  not 
Mr.  Hamilton  been  aware  of  the  violent  nature  of  popular 
feeling,  those  defects  which  still  remained,  though  excused  by 
the  recollection  of  the  mental  tortures  Myrvin  had  been  en- 
during, would  undoubtedly  have  departed,  as  entirely  as  every 
darker  shade  on  his  character  had  done 

Convinced  that  Arthur's  attention  to  parochial  affairs,  as 
well  as  his  conduct  in  other  matters,  had  been  very  opposite 
to  that  which  had  been  reported,  neither  Mr.  Howard  nor 
Mr.  Hamilton  could  feel  satisfied  till  they  had  written  to  him, 
frankly  avowing  their  injustice,  and  asking  his  pardon  and 
forgetfulness  of  the  past,  and  assuring  him  that,  if  his  conduct 
continued  equally  worthy  of  approbation  as  it  was  at  the 
present  time,  he  should  ever  find  in  them  sincere  and  active 
friends. 

Mr.  Hamilton  felt  he  had  much,  very  much  to  say  to  the 
young  man  ;  but  in  what  manner  to  word  it  he  was  somewhat 
perplexed.  He  could  not  speak  of  his  daughter,  and  yet 
Myr'in's  conduct  towards  her  had  created  a  feeling  of  grati- 
tude and  admiration  which  he  could  not  suppress.  Many 
fathers  would  have  felt  indignation  only  at  the  young  man's 
presumption,  but  Mr.  Hamilton  was  neither  so  unreasonable 
nor  so  completely  devoid  of  sympathy.  It  was  he  himself,  he 
thought,  who  had  acted  imprudently  in  allowing  him  to  asso 
ciate  so  intimately  with  his  daughters,  not  the  fault  of  the  suf- 
ferer. Myrvin  had  done  but  his  duty  indeed,  but  Mr.  Hamilton 
knew  well  there  were  very  few  young  men  who  would  have 
acted  as  he  had  done,  when  conscious  that  his  affection  was 
returned  with  all  the  enthusiasm  and  devotedness  of  a  disposi- 
tion such  as  Emmeline's.  How  few  but  would  have  played 
with  those  feelings,  tortured  her  by  persuasions  to  forget  duty 
for  the  sake  of  love  ;  but  Arthur  had  not  done  this,  and  the 
father's  heart  swelled  towards  him  in  gratitude  and  esteem  ; 
9ven  while  ho  knew  the  hopelessness  of  his  love,  he  folt  for  the 


THE  MOTHER' s  RECOMPENSE.  341 

anguish  which  his  sympathy  told  him  Arthur  must  endure. 
After  more  deliberation  and  thought  than  he  could  have  be- 
lieved necessary  for  such  a  simple  thing  as  to  write  a  letter, 
Mr.  Hamilton  did  achieve  his  object,  retaining  a  copy  of  his 
epistle,  to  prove  to  his  child  -he  had  been  earnest  in  his  as- 
surances that  Arthur's  character  should  be  cleared.  Pain- 
fully agitated  by  the  tale  she  had  heard,  and  this  unexpected 
confidence  of  her  father,  Emmeline  glanced  her  eye  over  the 
paper,  and  read  as  follows  : — 

"  To  the  Rev.  Arthur  Myrvin,  Ilanocc/: 

"  MY  PEAR  MYRVIN, — You  will  be  no  doubt  astonished  at 
receiving  this  letter,  brief  as  I  intend  it  to  be,  from  one  with 
whom  you  parted  in  no  very  friendly  terms,  and  «?ho  has,  I 
grieve  to  own,  given  you  but  little  reason  to  believe  me  your 
friend.  When  a  man  has  been  unjust  and  prejudiced,  it  be- 
comes his  peremptory  duty,  however  pride  may  rebel,  to  do  all  in 
his  power  to  atone  for  it  by  an  honorable  reparation,  both  in  word 
and  deed,  towards  him  he  may  have  injured.  Such,  my  young 
friend,  is  at  present  our  relative  positions,  and  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
know  how  best  to  express  my  sense  of  your  honorable  conduct 
and  my  own  injustice,  which  occasioned  a  a  degree  of  harshness 
in  my  manner  towards  you  when  we  separated,  which,  believe 
me.  I  now  recall  both  with  regrejt  and  pain.  Circumstances  have 
transpired  in  the  parish  once  under  your  care,  which  have  con- 
vinced not  only  me,  but  all  those  still  more  violently  prejudiced 
against  you,  that  your  fair  fame  was  tarnished  by  the  secret 
machinations  and  insidious  representations  of  an  enemy,  and 
not  by  the  faulty  nature  of  your  conduct ;  and  knowing  this 
we  most  earnestly  appeal  to  the  nobleness  of  your  nature  for 
forgetfulness  of  the  past,  and  beg  you  will  endeavor  hencefor- 
ward to  regard  those  as  your  sincere  friends  whom  you  have 
unhappily  had  too  much  reason  to  believe  otherwise. 

''For  myself,  my  dear  Myrvin,  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  will 
do  this,  for  candidly  I  own,  that  only  now  I  have  learned  the 
true  nature  of  your  character.  When  I  first  knew  you,  I  wa,l 
interested  in  your  welfare,  as  the  chosen  friend  of  my  son.  and 
also  for  your  father's  sake,  now  it  is  for  your  own.  The  differ- 
ent positions  we  occupy  in  life,  the  wide  distance  which  cir- 
cumstances place  between  us,  will.  I  feel  sure,  prevent  all  mis- 
conception on  your  part  as  to  my  meaning,  and  prevent  your 
drawing  from  my  friendly  words  conclusions  opposite  to  what  I 
intend,  therefore  I  do  not  hesitate  to  avow  that  I  not  only  es- 


342  THE    MOTHER'S    RECOMPENSE. 

teem,  but  from  my  heart  I  thank  you,  Myrvin.  for  your  indul 
gence  of  those  honorable  feelings,  that  perfect  integrity  which 
bade  you  resign  your  curacy  and  depart  from  CHkwood.  I  did 
you  wrong,  great  wrong;  words  can  but  faintly  compensate  in- 
jury, though  words  have  been  the  weapon  by  which  that  injury 
has  been  inflicted,  yet  I  feel  confident  you  will  not  retniu  dis. 
pleasure,  natural  as  it  was  ;  you  will  consent  ince  more  to  1  >ok 
on  and  appeal,  if  you  should  ever  require  it,  to  the  father  of 
Herbert  as  your  willing  friend.  Believe  me.  that  if  it  be  in  my 
power  to  assist  you,  you  will  never  appeal  in  vain.  Lord  Mal- 
vern,  I  rejoice  to  find,  is  your  stanch  friend,  and  nothing  shall 
be  wanting  on  my  part  to  render  that  friendship  as  permanent 
as  advantageous.  Mrs.  Hamilton  begs  me  to  inform  you.  that 
in  this  communication  of  my  feelings,  I  have  transcribed  her 
own.  Injustice- indeed  she  never  did  you;  but  admiration, 
esteem,  and  gratitude  are  inmates  of  her  bosom  as  sincerely  as 
they  are  of  my  own.  Continue,  my  young  friend,  this  unwa- 
vering regard  to  the  high  principles  of  your  nature,  this  steady 
adherence  to  duty,  spite  of  prejudice  and  wrong,  if  indeed  they 
should  ever  again  assail  you,  and  the  respect  of  your  fellow- 
creatures  will  be  yours  as  warmly,  as  unfeignedly,  as  is  that 
of  "  Your  sincere  friend, 

"ARTHUR  HAMILTON." 

No  word,  no  sound  broke  from  the  parched  lips  of  Emme- 
line  us  she  ceased  to  read.  She  returned  the  paper  to  her 
father  in  that  same  silence,  and  turning  from  his  glance, 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Mr.  Hamilton  guessed  at  once 
all  that  was  passing  in  that  young  and  tortured  heart ;  he 
drew  her  to  him  and  whispered  fondly — 

"  Speak  to  me,  my  Emmeline.  You  do  not  think  he  cau 
mistake  my  feelings.  He  will  not  doubt  all  prejudice  is  re- 
moved." 

"  Oh.  no,  no,"  she  replied,  after  a  severe  struggle  for  com- 
posure ;  u  you  have  said  enough,  dear,  dear  papa.  I  could  not 
have  expected  more." 

For  a  moment  she  clung  to  his  neck,  and  covered  his  cheek 
with  kisses,  then  gently  withdrawing  herself  from  his  arms, 
quietly  but  hastily  left  the  room.  For  about  an  hour  she 
might  have  remained  absent,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  would  not 
disturb  her ;  and  when  she  returned  there  was  no  trace  of 
agitation  ;  pale  she  was  indeed,  and  her  eye  had  lost  its  bright 
uess,  but  that  was  too  customary  now  to  be  deemed  the  effect 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  343 

of  excited  emotion,  and  no  farther  notice  was  taken,  save  that 
perhaps  the  manner  of  her  parents  and  Ellen  towards  her  that 
night  was  even  fonder  than  usual. 

Once  again  Mr.  Hamilton  mentioned  Arthur  Myrvin ;  to 
speak  of  the  pleasing  and  satisfactory  letters  both  he  and  Mr. 
Howard  had  received  from  him.  He  addressed  himself  to 
Ellen,  telling  her,  Arthur  had  written  in  a  manner  tending  to 
sai/sfy  even  her  friendly  feelings  towards  him.  Etumeline 
joined  not  in  the  conversation.  Her  father  did  not  offer  to 
show  her  the  letter,  and  she  stilled  the  yearnings  of  her  young 
and  loving  heart.  From  that  hour  the  name  of  Arthur  Myrvin 
was  never  heard  in  the  halls  of  Oakwood.  There  was  no  ap- 
pearance of  effort  in  the  avoidance,  but  still  it  was  not  spoken; 
not  even  by  Percy  and  Herbert,  nor  by  Caroline  cr  her  hus- 
band. Even  the  letters  of  Lady  Florence  and  Lady  Emily 
Lyle  ceased  to  make  him  their  principal  object.  Emmeline 
knew  the  volatile  nature  of  the  latter,  and  therefore  was  not 
surprised  that  she  had  grown  tired  of  the  theme  :  that  Lady 
Florence  should  so  completely  cease  all  mention  of  the  tutor  of 
her  favorite  brother  was  rather  more  strange,  but  she  did  so 
perhaps  in  her  letters  to  Ellen,  and  of  that  Emmeline  had  not 
courage  to  ask.  St.  Eval  would  speak  of  Lord  Louis,  express- 
ing hopes  that  he  was  becoming  more  steady;  but  it  so  chanced 
that,  although  at  such  times  Emmeline,  spite  of  herself,  ever 
longed  for  somewhat  more,  the  magic  name  that  would  have 
bidden  every  pulse  throb  never  reached  her  ears,  and  her  ex- 
cited spirit  would  sink  back  in  despondency  and  gloom,  in- 
creased from  the  momentary  excitement  which  expectation  had 
vainly  called  forth. 

Astonished  indeed  had  Arthur  Myrvin  been  at  the  receipt 
of  his  letters  from  Oakwood  and  the  lleotory.  Mr.  Howard's 
was  productive  of  gratification  alone ;  that  of  Mr.  Hamilton 
flfforded  even  greater  pleasure,  combined  with  a  more  than 
?iju:il  measure  of  pain.  He  had  hoped  Emmeline  would  have 
answered  his  letter.  She  did  not.  but  he  knew  her  influence 
had  been  exercised  in  his  favor ;  and  agony  as  it  was.  he  ac- 
knowledged she  had  acted  wisely.  There  was  too  much  devo- 
tcdncss  in  Emmeline's  character  for  Myrvin  to  encourage  one 
lingering  doubt  that  his  affections  were  returned  ;  and  as  he 
thought  on  her  steady  discharge  of  filial  duty,  as  he  recalled 
their  parting  interview,  and  felt  she  had  not  wavered  from  the 
path  she  had  pointed  out,  his  own  energies,  notwithstanding 
that  still  lingering,  still  acute  suffering,  were  roused  within 


344  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

him,  and  he  resolved  he  would  obey  her.  She  should  see  hci 
appeal  had  not  been  made  in  vain  ;  she  should  never  blush  for 
the  man  she  had  honored  with  her  love ;  he  would  endeavor  to 
deserve  her  esteem,  though  they  might  never  meet  again.  He 
felt  he  had  been  too  much  the  victim  of  an  ill-fated  passion  ;  he 
had  by  neglect  in  trifles  encouraged  the  prejudice  against  him, 
lost  himself  active  and  willing  friends  ;  this  should  no  longer 
be,  and  Myrvin  devoted  himself  so  perseveringly,  so  assidu- 
ously to  his  pupil,  allowing  himself  scarcely  any  time  for  soli- 
tary thought,  that  not  the  keenest  observer  would  have  sus- 
pected there  was  that  upon  the  young  man's  heart  which  was 
poisoning  the  buoyancy  of  youth,  robbing  life  of  its  joy,  and 
rendering  him  old  before  his  time. 

That  Mr.  Hamilton,  the  father  of  his  Emmeline,  that  his 
feelings  should  have  thus  changed  towards  him,  that  he  should 
admire  and  esteem  instead  of  condemn,  was  a  matter  of  truly 
heartfelt  pleasure.  Hope  would  have  shook  aloft  her  elastic 
wings,  and  carried  him  beyond  himself,  had  not  that  letter  in 
the  same  hour  dashed  to  the  earth  his  soaring  fancy,  and  placed 
the  seal  upon  his  doom.  He  could  not  be  mistaken  ;  Mr. 
Hamilton  knew  all  that  had  passed  between  him  and  Emme- 
line. and  while  he  expressed  his  gratitude  for  the  integrity  and 
forbearance  he  (Myrvin)  had  displayed,  he  as  clearly  said  their 
love  was  hopeless,  their  union  never  could  take  place. 

Myrvin  had  known  this  before,  then  why  did  his  heart  sink 
in  even  deeper,  darker  despondency  as  he  read  ?  why  were  his 
eiforts  at  cheerfulness  so  painful,  so  unavailing?  He  knew 
not  and  yet  struggled  on,  but  weeks,  ay,  months  rolled  by,  and 
yet  that  pan<»  remained  unconquered  still. 

And  did  Emmeline  become  again  in  looks  and  glee  as  we 
have  known  her?  Was  she  even  to  her  mother's  eye  again  a 
child?  Strangers,  even  some  of  her  father's  friends,  might 
still  have  deemed  her  so  ;  butalas!  a  mother's  love  strove  vainly 
thus  to  be  deceived.  Health  returned,  and  with  it  appeared 
to  come  her  wonted  enthusiasm,  her  animated  spirits.  Not 
once  did  she  give  way  to  depression ;  hers  was  not  that  pining 
submission  which  is  more  pain  to  oehold  than  decided  opposi- 
tion, that  resignation  which  has  its  foundation  in  pride,  not  in 
humility,  as  its  possessors  suppose.  Emmeline's  submission 
was  none  of  these.  Her  duties  as  daughter  and  sister  and 
friend,  as  well  as  those  to  the  neighboring  poor,  were,  if  pos 
sible,  more  actively  and  perseveringly  performed  than  they 
bad  ever  been  before.  Not  one  of  her  former^avorite  employ 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  345 

ments  was  thrown  aside.  The  complete  unselfishness  of  her 
nature  was  more  clearly  visible  than  ever,  and  was  it  strange 
that  she  became  dearer  than  ever  to  those  with  whom  sho 
lived  ?  Her  parents  felt  she  was  twining  herself  more  and 
more  around  their  hearts,  and  beheld,  with  inexpressible  an- 
guish, that  though  her  young  mind  was  so  strong,  her  fragile 
frame  was  too  weak  to  support  the  constant  struggle.  She 
never  complained  ;  there  was  no  outward  failing  of  health,  but 
there  was  a  nameless  something  hovering  round  her,  which 
even  her  doting  parents  could  not  define,  but  which  they  felt 
too  forcibly  to  shake  off;  and  notwithstanding  ever/  effort  to 
expel  the  idea,  that  nameless  something  brought  with  it  alarm 
— alarm  defined  indeed  too  clearly  ;  but  of  which  even  to  each 
other  they  could  not  speak. 

Time  passed,  and  Herbert  Hamilton,  as  the  period  of  his 
ordination  was  rapidly  approaching,  lost  many  of  those  pain- 
fully foreboding  feelings  which  for  the  last  three  years  had  so 
constantly  and  painfully  assailed  him.  He  felt  stronger  in 
health  than  he  had  ever  remembered  to  have  done,  and  the 
spirit  of  cheerfulness,  and  hope,  and  joy,  breathing  in  the  let- 
ters of  his  Mary,  affected  him  with  the  same  unalloyed  feelings 
of  anticipated  happiness;  sensations  of  holiness,  of  chastened 
thanksgiving,  pervaded  his  every  thought,  the  inward  struggle 
appeared  passed.  There  was  a  calm  upon  his  young  spirit,  so 
soothing  and  so  blessed,  that  the  future  rose  before  him  unsul- 
lied by  a  cloud  ;  anticipation  was  so  bright,  it  seemed  a  fore- 
taste of  that  glorious  heaven,  the  goal  to  which  he  and  his 
Mary  looked — the  home  they  sought  together. 

Percy  had  also  obtained  honorable  distinction  at  Oxford  ; 
his  active  spirit  would  not  have  permitted  him  to  remain  quiet 
in  college  so  long,  had  he  not  determined  to  see  his  brother 
ordained  ere  he  commenced  the  grand  tour,  to  which  he  looked 
with  much  zest,  as  the  completion  to  his  education,  and  render 
him,  if  he  turned  it  to  advantage,  in  all  respects  fitted  to  serve 
his  country  nobly  in  her  senate,  the  point  to  which  he  had 
looked,  from  the  first  hour  he  was  capable  of  thought,  with  an 
ardor  which  increased  as  that  long-desired  time  approached. 

The  disgraceful  expulsion  of  Cecil  Grrahame  from  Cam- 
bridge opened  afresh  that  wound  in  his  father's  heart  which 
Annie  had  first  inflicted,  but  which  the  conduct  of  Lilla  had 
succeeded  in  soothing  sufficiently  to  bid  her  hope  it  would  in 
time  be  healed.  The  ill-directed  young  man  had  squandered 
away  the  whole  of  his  mother's  fortune,  and  behaved  in  a  man- 
15* 


346  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

ner  that  rendered  expulsion  inevitable.  He  chose  to  join  th<? 
array,  and.  with  a  painfully  foreboding  heart,  his  father  pro- 
cured him  a  commission  in  a  regiment  bound  for  Ireland, 
hoping  he  would  be  exposed  to  fewer  temptations  there  than 
did  he  remain  in  England. 

Lady  Helen,  as  her  health  continued  to  decline,  felt  con- 
science becoming  more  and  more  upbraiding;  its  voice  would 
not  be  stilled.  She  had  known  her  duty  as  a  mother ;  she 
had  seen  it  beautifully  portrayed  before  her  in  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
but  she  had  neglected  its  performance,  and  her  chastisement 
she  felt  had  come.  Annie's  conduct  she  had  borne,  she  had 
forgiven  her,  scarcely  appearing  conscious  of  the  danger  her 
daughter  had  escaped  ;  but  Cecil  was  her  darling,  and  his  dis- 
grace came  upon  her  as  a  thunderbolt,  drawing  the  veil  from 
her  eyes,  with  startling  and  bewildering  light.  She  had  con- 
cealed his  childish  faults,  she  had  petted  him  in  every  whim, 
encouraged  him  in  every  folly  in  his  youth  ;  to  hide  his  faults 
from  a  severe  but  not  too  harsh  a  judge,  she  had  lowered  herself 
in  the  eyes  of  her  husband,  and  achieved  no  good.  Cecil  was 
expelled,  disgracefully  expelled,  and  the  wretched  mother,  as 
she  contrasted  his  college  life  with  that  of  the  young  Hamil- 
tons,  felt  she  had  been  the  cause  ;  she  had  led  him  on  by  the 
flowery  paths  of  indulgence  to  shame  and  ruin.  He  came  not 
near  her ;  he  joined  his  regiment,  and  left  England,  without 
bidding  her  farewell,  and  she  felt  she  should  never  see  him 
more.  From  that  hour  she  sunk ;  disease  increased,  and 
though  she  still  lingered,  and  months  passed,  and  there  was 
no  change  for  the  worse,  yet  still  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton 
felt  that  death  was  written  on  her  brow,  that,  however  he 
might  loiter  on  his  way,  his  destined  victim  would  never  again 
feel  the  blessedness  of  health ;  and  all  their  efforts  were  now 
iirected  in  soothing  the  affliction  of  Grahame,  and  lead  him  to 
console  by  tenderness  the  remaining  period  of  his  unhappy 
wife's  existence.  They  imparted  not  to  him  their  fears,  but 
they  rested  not  till  their  desire  was  obtained,  and  Lady  Helen 
could  feel  she  was  not  only  forgiven  but  still  beloved,  and 
would  be  sincerely  mourned,  both  by  her  husband  and  Lilla,' 
in  whom  she  had  allowed  herself  at  one  time  to  be  deceived. 

Having  now  brought  the  affairs  of  Oakwood,  and  all  inti- 
mately connected  with  it,  to  a  point,  from  which  no  subject  of 
interest  took  place  for  above  a  year,  at  that  period  we  resuma 
our  narrative. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  347 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IT  was  a  fine  summer  morning.  The  windows  of  a  pretty  little 
sitting-room  were  thrown  wide  open,  and  the  light  breeze, 
loaded  with  the  perfume  of  a  thousand  flowers,  played  refresh- 
ingly on  the  pale  cheek  of  our  young  friend  Emmeline,  who, 
reclining  on  a  sofa,  looked  forth  on  beautiful  nature  with  min- 
gled sadness  and  delight.  More  than  a  year  had  elapsed  sinco 
we  last  beheld  her,  and  she  was  changed,  painfully  changed. 
She  still  retained  her  cliildish  expression  of  countenance, 
which. ever  made  her  appear  younger  than  iu  reality  she  was, 
but  its  ever-varying  light,  its  beautiful  glow,  were  gone ;  yet 
she  complained  not.  The  smile  ever  rested  on  her  lips  in  the 
presence  of  her  parents;  her  voice  was  .ever  joyous.  anJ  no 
sigh,  no  repining  word,  betrayed  the  breaking  heart  within. 
She  recognized  with  a  full  and  grateful  heart  the  blessings 
still  surrounding  her,  and  struggled  long  and  painfully  to  be 
content;  but  that  fond  yearning  would  not  be  stilled,  that 
deep  love  no  effort  could  dispel.  Still  there  were  times  when, 
those  who  had  never  known  her  in  former  years  would,  have 
pronounced  her  well,  quite  well  in  health:  and  Emmeline 
would  smile  when  such  remarks  reached  her,  and  wonder  if 
her  parents  were  so  deceived.  Sometimes  she  thought  they 
were,  for  the  name  of  Arthur  Myrvin  was  no  longer  suppressed 
before  hor.  She  heard  of  him,  of  his  devotion  to  his  pupil,  of 
the  undeviating  integrity  and  steadiness  which  characterized 
him.  and  promised  fair  to  lead  Lord  Louis  in  the  same  bright 
paths;  she  had  heard  of  Arthur's  devoted  care  of  his  pupil 
during  a  long  and  dangerous  illness  ;  that  he,  under  Divine 
goodness,  had  been  the  instrument  of  saving  the  youth's  life, 
and  restoring  him  to  health ;  and  if  she  permitted  no  sign  to 
betray  the  deep,  absorbing  interest  she  felt,  if  her  parents  ima- 
gined he  was  forgotten,  they  knew  not  the  throbbings  of  her 
heart. 

She  was  conversing  this  morning  with  Mrs.  Cameron,  who 
had  learned  to  love  Emmeline  dearly;  from  being  very  often 
at  Oakwood.  she  and  her  daughters  were  looked  on  by  all  Mr. 
Hamilton's  children  as  part  of  the  family. 

••  Is  not  Flora  delighted  at  the  idea  of  again  seeing  her 
brother?"  Emmeline  asked,  in  answer  to  Mrs.  Cameron's  in- 
formation that  Walter  was  returning  with  his  regiment  to 
England,  and  in  a  very  few  weeks  would  be  once  more  an  iu- 


348  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

mate  of  her  home.  She  answered  cheerfully  in  the  affirma- 
tive, and  Emmeline  again  inquired — "  Was  Captain  Cameraf 
at  all  acquainted  with  Cecil  Grahame?  Did  he  know  thf 
cause  of  his  having  been  so  disgracefully  cashiered  ?" 

"  Their  regiments  were  quartered  in  such  different  parts 
of  Ireland,"  replied  Mrs.  Cameron,  "  that  I  believe  they  only 
wiet  on  one  occasion,  and  then  Walter  was  glad  to  withdraw 
from  the  society  of  the  dissolute  young  men  by  whom  Lieu- 
tenant Grahame  was  always  surrounded.  The  cause  of  hig 
disgrace  appears  enveloped  in  mystery.  Walter  certainly 
alluded  to  it,  but  so  vaguely,  that  I  did  not  like  to  ask  further 
particulars.  I  dreaded  the  effect  it  would  \iave  en  Mr.  Gra- 
hame,  but  little  imagined  poor  Lady  Helen  would  have  sunk 
beneath  it." 

"  I  believe  few  know  how  she  doted  on  that  boy.  It  was 
misguided,  but  still  it  was  love  that  caused  her  to  ruin  him  as 
she  did  in  his  childhood.  From  the  hour  he  was  expelled  from 
Cambridge,  she  never  held  up  her  head ;  it  was  so  cruelly  un- 
grateful of  him  to  set  off  for  Ireland  without  once  seeking  her; 
and  this  last  stroke  was  too  much  for  her  to  bear.  She  still 
hoped,  despite  her  better  judgment,  that  he  would  in  the  end 
distinguish  himself,  and  she  could  not  meet  the  disappoint 
inent." 

"Did  she  long  survive  the  intelligence?1' 

''Scarcely  four-and-twenty  hours.  Mr.  Grahame,  feeling 
unable  to  command  himself,  requested  mamma  and  Lilla  to 
impart  to  her  the  distressing  information,  which  they  did  most 
tenderly ;  but  their  caution  was  entirely  fruitless.  Her  con- 
stant inquiry  was  relative  to  his  present"  situation,  and  whep 
she  heard  that  he  had  not  been  seen  since  he  was  cashiered 
she  sunk  into  a  state  of  insensibility  from  which  she  never 
recovered." 

"And  Mr.  Grahame?" 

"  The  shock  rendered  him  almo'st  distracted,  for  it  was  sc 
sudden.  Lady  Helen  had  become  so  altered  lately,  that  she 
was  devotedly  loved  both  by  her  husband  and  child ;  she  had 
been  so  long  ailing,  that  both  Lilla  and  her  father  fondly  hoped 
and  believed  she  would  be  spared  to  them  still  some  years  longer, 
though  she  might  never  entirely  recover  her  health  Mr. 
Grahame's  feelings  are  stronger  than  most  people  imagine,  but 
his  misfortunes  have  bowed  him  down  even  more  than  I  could 
have  believed  possible." 

"  They  appeared  so  united  and  happy,  that  I  do  not  won 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  349 

der  at  it,"  observed  Mrs.  Cameron.  "  I  have  seldom  seen  such 
devoted  ness  as  Lady  Helen  received  from  both  her  husband 
and  child ;  she  always  welcomed  their  affectionate  attentions 
as  if  sbe  felt  herself  undeserving  of  them.  I  was  interested 
iu  her.  she  bore  her  sufferings  so  meekly." 

•'And  poor  Lilla,  how  is  she?" 

"  She  suffers  much,  but  behaves  admirably.  Ellen  says 
her  self-control  is  extraordinary,  when  we  remember  she 
was  one  of  those  beings  who  couid  never  conceal  a  single  feel- 
ing. Her  poor  father  seems  to  look  to  her  no\*  as  his  sole 
blessing  and  support ;  she  soothes  his  sorrow  so  quietly,  so 
tenderly,  and  ever  tries  to  prevent  his  thoughts  dwelling  on 
the  stigma  which  Cecil's  disgraceful  conduct  has  cast  upon  his 
name.  I  trust  time  will  restore  that  calm  tranquillity  which 
he  has  enjoyed  the  last  year,  but  I  must  own  I  fear  it.  If 
this  moody  irritability  continue,  Lilla  will  have  much  to 
bear,  but  she  will  do  her  duty,  and  that  will  bring  its  own 
reward." 

A  faint  and  scarcely  audible  sigh  escaped  from  Emmeline 
as  she  spoke.  Mrs.  Cameron,  without  noticing,  asked  when 
she  expected  her  brothers  to  return  home  from  London. 

"  Herbert  takes  orders  next  week,  and  they  return  together 
very  soon  afterwards.  He  is,  as  you  will  believe,  delighted  at 
the  near  approach  of  an  event  which  has  been  his  guiding  star 
since  his  boyhood.  I  never  saw  him  looking  so  well  or  so 
happy,  and  Percy  shares  his  joy,  and  we  shall  have  him  near 
us,  I  am  happy  to  say.  for  he  will  be  the  minister  of  our  own 
dear  parish,  which,  by  Mr.  Howard's  promotion,  will  be  vacant 
about  the  time  he  will  require  it.  Mr.  Howard  says  he  thinks 
he  should  have  turned  rebel,  and  refused  the  presentation  of 
a  valuable  living,  with  the  title  of  archdeacon  attached  to  his 
name,  if  any  one  but  Herbert  were  to  succeed  him  here  ;  but  as 
he  leaves  his  flock  under  his.care,  he  will  not  refuse  the  blessings 
offered  him.  He  does  nol  go  very  far  from  us ;  if  he  had  I 
should  have  been  so  very  sorry,  that  even  my  brother's  suc- 
ceeding him  would  not  have  satisfied  me." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  which  was  broken  by  Emmeline 
saying — 

"  Speaking  about  Mr.  Howard  and  Herbert  has  made  me 
forget  Percy,  dear  fellow.  You  know  how  he  has  raved  about 
the  grand  tour  he  is  going  to  make,  all  the  curiosities  he  is  to 
Bee  and  bring  home  for  me.  even  to  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  or 
the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  if  I  wish  to  see  them.  He  has  taken 


850  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

my  provoking  remarks  in  good  part,  and  sets  off  with  Carolina 
and  her  husband  in  July.  My  sister's  health  has  been  so  deli 
cate  the  last  three  months,  that  she  is  advised  to  go  to  Geneva. 
Her  little  boy  grows  such  a  darling,  I  shall  miss  him.  almost  aa 
much  as  his  mother." 

"Do  you  stay  with  them  at  Castle  Terryn  before  they  go?" 

"  I  do  not  think  I  shall,  for  at  present  I  seem  to  dislike  the 
idea  of  leaving  home.  They  come  to  us,  I  bcUeve,  a  few  weeks 
hence,  in  order  that  we  may  be  all  together,  which  we  could  not 
very  well  be  at  St.  Eval's." 

';  Has  Lord  St.  Eval  quite  lost  all  anxiety  on  his  brother's 
account  ?  The  physicians  said  they  could  never  havt  bi ought 
him  through  it.  had  it  not  been  for  Mr.  Myrvin's  prudent  and 
unceasing  care." 

.  ';  Yes ;  every  letter  from  Castle  Malvern  confirms  the 
report;  all  anxiety  has  been  over  some  weeks  now;  indeed, 
before  the  Marquis  reached  Hanover,  where  he  received 
from  his  son's  own  lips  an  affecting  and  animated  account  of  his 
own  imprudence,  and  Mr.  Myrviu's  heroic  as  well  as  prudent 
conduct." 

':  Was  there  an  accident,  then  ?  I  thought  it  was  from  the 
fever  then  raging  in  the  town." 

"  Lord  Louis  had  determined,  against  his  tutor's  consent, 
to  join  a  party  of  very  gay  young  men,  who  wished  to  leave 
Hanover  for  a  time  and  make  an  excursion  to  the  sea-shore. 
Mr.  Myrvin,  who  did  not  quite  approve  of  some  of  the  young 
gentlemen  who  were  to  join  the  party,  remonstrated,  but  in 
vain.  Lord  Louis  was  obstinate,  and  Mr.  Myrvin.  finding  all 
his  efforts  fruitless,  accompanied  his  pupil,  very  much  to  the 
annoyance  of  the  whole  party,  who  determined  to  render  hvs 
sojourn  with  them  so  distasteful,  that  he  would  quickly  with- 
draw himself.  Lord  Louis,  led  on  by  evil  companions,  turned 
against  his  tutor,  who,  however,  adhered  to  his  duty  unshrink- 
ingly. A  failing  match  was  resolved  on.  and.  notwithstanding 
the  predictions  of  Mr.  Myrvin.  that  a  violent  storm  was  coming 
on  and  likely  to  burst  over  them  before  half  their  day's  sport 
was  completed,  they  set  off,  taunting  him  with  being  afraid  of 
the  water.  They  declared  there  was  no  room  for  him  in  their 
boats,  and  pushed  off  without  him.  He  followed  them  closely. 
and  fortunate  was  it  that  he  did  so.  The  storm  burst  with 
fury;  the  little  vessels  were  most  of  them  shattered  to  pieces, 
and  many  of  the  misguided  and  unfortunate  young  men  fell 
victims  to  their  wilful  folly.  Some,  who  were  good  swimmers, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  351 

escaped,  but  Lord  Louis  had  struck  his  head  against  a  projecting 
rock.  and.  stunned  and  senseless,  must  have  sunk,  had  not  Mr. 
Myrviii  been  mercifully  permitted  to  bear  him  to  the  shore  in 
safety.  He  was  extremely  ill,  but  in  a  few  weeks  recovered 
sufficiently  to  return  to  Hanover,  unconscious,  as  was  Mr.  Myr- 
vin,  of  the  virulent  fever  then  raging  there.  Already  in  deli- 
cate health,  he  was  almost  instantly  attacked  by  the  disease,  in 
its  most  alarming  and  contagious  form  ;  the  servants  fled  in 
terror  from  the  house;  only  one,  his  own  valet, an  Englishman, 
remained  near  him.  But  Mr.  Myrvin  never  left  him  ;  day  and 
night  he  attended,  soothed,  and  relieved  him.  His  efforts 
were,  happily,  rewarded  :  Lord  Louis  lived,  and  his  preceptor 
escaped  all  infection.  The  Marquis  and  his  son  have  both 
written  of  Mr.  Myrvin  in  the  most  gratifying  terms;  and  the 
Marchioness  told  mamma  she  could  never  in  any  way  re^ay 
the  debt  of  gratitude  she  owed  him." 

Mrs.  Cameron  was  much  interested  in  Emn'.eline's  narra- 
tive, and  asked  if  they  were  not  soon  to  return  to  Eng- 
land. — 

':  They  may  have  already  arrived."  replied  Emmeline. 
{;  Florence  wrote  me  a  fortnight  ago  she  was  counting  the  days 
till  their  return.  I  sent  a  letter,  apparently  from  her,  this 
morning  to  Woodlands  for  Ellen,  as  I  am  not  quite  sure 
whether  she  will  return  home  this  evening  or  not,  and  perhaps 
that  contains  the  intelligence.  His  mother  and  sisters  will  be 
overjoyed  to  have  him  once  more  with  them,  after  the  dangers 
he  has  passed." 

"  Has  Mr.  Myrvin  any  family  ?" 

"  Only  his  father,  a  truly  good,  kind  old  man.  the  rector  of 
Llangwillan." 

"  And  are  you  not  desirous  to  see  this  admirable  young 
man,  this  devoted  preceptor,  my  dear  Emmeline  ?:)  said 
Mrs.  Cameron,  smiling.  '•  Will  he  not  be  an  excellent  hero  of 
romance  ?;) 

Emmeline  answered,  that  as  she  already  knew  him,  she 
could  not  throw  around  him  the  halo  of  imagination  ;  she  was 
content  to  admire  his  character  as  it  was,  without  decking  him 
in  other  charms.  Their  further  conversation  turned  upon  other 
and  indifferent  subjects  till  Mrs.  Cameron  departed. 

The  death  of  Lady  Helen  and  the  misconduct  of  her  son 
had  cast  such  deep  gloom  over  Woodlands,  that  not  only  Em- 
nieline,  but  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  feared  Graliame 
would  never  rouse  himself  from  the  moody  apathy  into  which 


352  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

lie  had  fallen.  He  felt  disgrace  had  fallen  on  his  name,  a  stain 
never  to  be  erased ;  that  all  men  would  shun  .the  father  of  one 
so  publicly  dishonored.  The  extent  of  Cecil's  conduct  waa 
scarcely  known  even  to  his  father ;  but  that  he  had  used  dis- 
honest measures  at  the  gambling  table  to  discharge  enormous 
debts  ;  that  he  had  behaved  insolently  to  his  superior  officers  ; 
that  it  required  great  interest  to  prevent  a  much  harsher  sen- 
tence than  had  been  his  punishment — these  facts  were  knowu 
all  over  England.  The  previously  unsullied  name  of  Grahame 
was  now  synonymous  with  infamy ;  and  it  was  even  supposed 
Cecil  would  never  show  his  face  in  England  again.  Mr.  Gra- 
hame shrunk  in  misery  from  encountering  the  glance  even 
of  his  friends ;  he  felt  as  if  he  too  shared  the  disgrace  of  his 
son,  he  and  his  young,  his  beautiful  Lilla  ;  she  whom  he  had 
anticipated,  with  so  much  pleasure,  introducing  among  his 
friends,  she  was  doomed  to  share  with  him  the  solitude,  which 
he  declared  was  the  only  fit  abode  of  ignominy;  and  even  to 
her  his  manner  was  wayward  and  uncertain — afc  times  almost 
painfully  fond,  at  others  equally  stern  and  harsh.  Lilla's  char- 
acter was  changed  ;  she  struggled  to  bear  with  him,  unrepin- 
ingly,  dutifully,  conscious  that  the  eye  of  her  God  was  upon 
her,  however  her  father  might  appear  insensible  to  her  affection. 

Even  the  society  of  Mr.  Howard  and  Mr.  Hamilton  was 
irksome;  their  efforts  to  rouse  and  cheer  him  were  unavailing, 
and  they  could  only  hope  time  would  achieve  that  for  which 
friendship  was  inadequate. 

Herbert's  engagement  with  Mary  Greville  still  remained 
untold,  but  he  looked  forward  to  discovering  his  long  treasured 
secret,  when  he  beheld  himself  indeed  an  ordained  minister  of 
God ;  Percy  perhaps  was  in  his  confidence,  but  neither  his  sis- 
ters nor  Ellen.  Mary's  letters  were  full  of  comfort  to  him ; 
such  pure  and  beautiful  affection  breathed  in  every  line,  that 
even  the  sadnesr  which  the  few  last  unconsciously  betrayed  did 
not  alarm  him.  He  accounted  for  it  by  her  reluctance  to  quit 
her  beautiful  retreat  in  the  Swiss  mountains  for  the  confusion 
and  heat  of  Paris,  where  she  now  resided.  A  few  months  pre- 
viously they  had  been  visited  in  their  retreat  by  her  father  ; 
scarcely  more  surprised  were  they  at  his  appearance  than  at 
his  manner,  which  was  kinder  and  more  indulgent  than  Mary 
had  ever  remembered  it.  For  a  short  time  Mrs.  Greville  in- 
dulged hopes,  that  their  long  separation  had  effected  a  change 
in  her  husband,  and  that  they  should  at  length  be  happy  to- 
gether. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  35j 

He  did  not  know  much  about  Alfred,  he  said,  except  that 
he  was  well,  and  travelling  with  some  friends  in  different  parts 
of  the  Continent. 

Mrs.  Greville  tried  to  be  satisfied,  and  her  cheering  hopes 
did  not  desert  her  even  when  her  husband  expressed  a  wish 
that  she  would  reside  with  him  at  Paris.  The  wish  rather 
confirmed  them,  as  it  evinced  that  he  was  no  longer  indifferent 
to  her  own  and  his  child:s  society.  With  joyful  alacrity  she 
consented,  but  in  vain  endeavored  to  banish  from  Mary's  mind 
the  foreboding  fears  that  appeared  to  have  filled  it,  from  tne 
hour  it  was  settled  they  were  to  leave  Monte  Rosa.  In  vain 
her  mother  affectionately  represented  how  much  nearer  she 
would  be  to  Herbert ;  nothing  could  remove,  though  she  strove 
to  conquer,  this  seemingly  uncalled-for  and  indefinable  despon- 
dency. 

"  I  confess  my  weakness,"  she  wrote  to  her  betrothed,  "but 
I  had  so  often  pictured  remaining  at  Monte  Rosa  till  you  came 
for  me,  as  you  had  promised,  so  often  pictured  to  myself  the 
delight  of  showing  you  my  favorite  haunts,  ere  we  left  them 
together  for  still  dearer  England,  that  I  cannot  b«ar  to  find 
these  visions  dispelled  without  pain.  I  know  you  will  tell  me 
I  ought  to  be  thankful  for  this  great  and  happy  change  in  my 
father,  and  bear  every  privation  for  the  chance  of  binding  him 
to  us  for  ever.  Do  not  reprove  me.  dear  Herbert,  but  there  is 
that  about  my  father  that  bids  me  tremble  still,  a*id  whispers 
the  calm  is  not  lasting ;  in  vain  I  strive  against  it  bwt  a  voice 
tells  me,  in  thus  leaving  Monte  Rosa, peace  lingers  in  its  beau- 
tiful shades,  and  woe's  dark  shadow  stands  threatening  before 
me." 

Herbert  longed  to  go  to  her,  and  thus  disperae  all  these 
foreboding  fears,  but  that  pleasure  the  near  approach  of  his 
ordination  prevented ;  but  fondly  he  looked  forw?rd  with  un- 
alloyed hope  in  a  few  months  to  seek  his  Mary,  and  at  once 
banish  all  indefinable  sorrow  by  making  her  his  own.  Not  a 
doubt  entered  his  mind  of  Mr.  Greville's  consent  when  he 
should  in  person  demand  it,  and  he  was  eager  to  do  so  while 
this  strangely  indulgent  humor  continued. 

The  first  few  months  of  her  residence  in  Paris  wcra  Draught 
with  happiness  for  Mrs.  Greville.  Her  husband's  manner  did 
not  change.  They  mingled  in  society,  and  the  admiration 
Mary's  quiet  beauty  excited  afforded  the  greatest  pleasrre  to 
her  mother,  and  even  appeared  to  inspire  her  father  with  'ome 
pride.  To  the  poor  girl  herself  it  was  irksome  and  pai-.'^vil ; 


354  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

out  she  tried  to  convince  herself  these  feelings  were  wrong,  and 
checked  them  even  in  her  letters  to  Herbert, 

Ellen  returned  from  Woodlands,  where  she  had  hecn  stny- 
ing  with  Lilla.  whose  affection  for  her  continued  unabated  ;  for 
.she  found  in  her  society  and  sympathy  much  comfort  since  her 
mother's  death.  There  was  little  change  visible  in  Ellen. 
Her  health  was  established,  her  pensive  beauty  unimpaired. 
Still  was  she  the  meek,  unassuming,  gentle  girl  she  had  long 
been ;  still  to  the  eye  of  strangers  somewhat  cold  and  indifferent. 
Her  inward  self  was  becoming  every  year  more  strengthened  ; 
she  had  resolved  to  use  every  effort  to  sujj'er,  without  the 
slightest  portion  of  bitterness  impregnating  her  sentiments  to- 
wards her  fellow-creatures,  or  the  world  in  general.  Her  lot 
she  knciv  was  to  bear  ;  her  duty  sliefelt  was  to  conceal. 

Ellen,  on  her  return  home,  gave  her  cousin  the  letter 
which  Emmeline  had  mentioned  as  having  forwarded  to  her 
that  morning.  It  was  fraught  with  interest,  and  the  anxious 
eye  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  moved  not  from  her  daughter's  coun- 
tenance as  she  read.  Still  was  it  so  calm  that  even  she  was 
puzzled  ;  and  again  the  thought,  C1  Is  it  for  him  "  she  is  thus 
drooping,  fading  like  a  flower  before  me?  is  it.  indeed,  the 
struggle  between  love  and  duty  which  has  made  her  thus? 
crossed  her  mind,  as  it  had  often,  very  often  done  before,  and 
brought  with  it  renewed  perplexity. 

Lady  Florence  had  written  in  the  highest  spirits,  announc- 
ing the  return  of  her  father.  Lord  Lours,  and  his  tutor;  that 
her  brother  was  looking  quite  well  and  strong,  and  was  the 
same  dear,  merry,  m.schievous  boy  as  ever  ;  delighted  to  be  in 
England,  abusing  all  the  Germans,  and  professing  and  dis- 
playing the  most  extreme  fondness  for  Mr.  Myrvin. 

'•He  speaks  of  Mr.  Myrvin  in  terms  that  brings  tears  to 
my  eyes,  tears  of  which,  my  dear  Ellen,  I  am  not  at  all 
ashamed.  The  only  drawback  to  the  life  of  a  soldier,  which  my 
brother  has  now  positively  resolved  on,  in  spite  of  all  our  per- 
suasions, exists,  he  says,  in  the  consequent  separation  from 
Mr.  Myrvin,  and  he  almost  wishes  to  go  to  Cambridge,  to 
chain  him  to  his  side  ;  but  for  Mr.  Myrvin  s  sake.  I  am  glad 
this  will  not  be.  He  is  looking  ill.  very  ill.  quite  different  to 
the  Arthur  Myrvin  we  knew  at  Oakwood  ;  a  change  has  come 
over  him  which  I  cannot  describe,  and  even  to  myself  can 
scarcely  define.  He  is  much  more  polished  in  his  manner, 
but  it  is  tinged  with  such  deep  melancholy,  or  intense  thought, 
I  really  do  not  know  which  it  is,  that  he  appears  many  years 


TIIE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  355 

older  than  when  he  left  England.  My  father  has  at  length 
prevailed  on  him  to  resign  all  idea  of  again  seeking  the  arduous 
charge  of  tutor,  but,  with  that  honest  pride  which  I  so  much 
admire  and  esteem,  he  has  refused  all  papa's  offers  of  advance- 
ment, only  consenting  to  accept  the  living  on  Eugene's  estate, 
when  Louis  shall  require  his  services  no  longer.  I  trust  the 
healthy  air  of  Cornwall  and  the  quiet  of  his  parish  will  restore 
him  to  health,  for  the  care  which  preserved  that  of  Louis  has, 
I  fear,  ruined  his  own.  He  goes  to  London  to-morrow,  to  see 
Herbert;  the  society  of  your  cousins  cannot  fail  to  do  him 
good.  Louis  joins  the  army  in  a  few  months,  and  then  Mr. 
Myrvin  will  take  possession  of  his  living  :  but  you  will  in  all 
probability  sec  them  before,  as  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Eval  have 
sent  a  pressing  invitation  for  them  to  come  down  to  Castle 
Tcrryn,  and  as  soon  as  Mr.  Myrvin  returns  from  London, 
Louis  intends  doing  so.  I  want  to  hear  Herbert's  opinion  of 
his  friend,  as  my  dismal  fancies  concerning  him  may.  after  all, 
be  only  a  woman's  fancy,  yet  looking  ill  he  decidedly  is." 

So  wrote  Lady  Florence,  and  very  soon  Herbert  and 
Percy's  letters  home  confirmed  all  she  had  said.  Either  the 
air  of  Germany  had  not  been  congenial,  or  some  other  cause 
had  so  changed  his  outward  appearance  and  tinged  his  man- 
ner, that  Herbert  could  not  look  on  him  without  pain  ;  but 
the  restless  irritation,  the  haughty  indifference  which  had  been 
his  before  he  left  Oakwood,  no  longer  existed.  There  was  a 
quiet  dignity  about  him  that  prevented  all  intrusive  sympathy, 
a  mild,  steady  lustre  in  his  dark-gray  eye,  which  so  clearly 
said  conscience  was  at  peace,  that  Herbert  instinctively  felt 
the  bonds  of  friendship  stronger  than  they  had  ever  been  be- 
fore;  lie  was  no  longer  anxious,  for  he  felt  assured  the  errors 
of  Arthur's  former  life  were  conquered,  and  he  wrote  to  his 
father  concerning  his  friend  with  all  his  native  eloquence. 

Emmeline  made  no  observation;  her  young  soul  was 
absorbed  in  an  intense  feeling  of  thanksgiving,  that  her  pray- 
ers had  been  heard.  Strength  had  been  granted  him,  and  he 
had  done  his  duty;  he  was  esteemed,  beloved  ;  his  character 
was  pure  and  bright ;  and  if  the  gulf  between  them  remained 
impassable,  should  she  murmur,  when  all  for  which  she  had 
prayed  had  been  vouchsafed  her?  But  a  sterner  call  of  obe- 
dience appeared  about  to  hover  over  her,  from  which  her  young 
spirit  shrunk  back  appalled. 

Herbert's  anxious  wishes  were  accomplished  ;  there  was  no 
longer  any  barrier  to  his  earnest  prayers  to  become  a  servant 


356  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

of  his  God,  and  of  service  to  his  fellow-creatures.  The  si* 
years  in  which  he  had  labored  unceasingly,  untiringly,  to  pre- 
pare himself  for  the  life  which  from  his  boyhood  he  had  chosen, 
now  appeared  but  as  a  passing  dream,  and  as  he  knelt  before 
the  venerable  bishop,  his  feelings  became  almost  overpowering. 
Tears  rose  in  his  eyes,  and  he  drooped  his  head  upon  his  hands 
to  conceal  them.  He  felt  this  was  no  common  life  on  which  he 
entered,  no  mere  profession,  in  which  he  would  beat  liberty  to 
think  and  act  as  he  pleased.  Herbert  felt  that  he  had  vowed 
himself  to  do  the  work  of  God ;  that  in  it  comprised  the  good 
of  his  fellow-creatures,  the  stern  conquest  of  his  own  rebellious 
will ;  that  his  actions,  not  his  language  only,  should  uphold  the 
glory  of  his  Maker. 

The  return  of  Percy  and  Herbert  brought  pleasure  to 
Oakwood,  and  a  week  or  two  afterwards  Lord  and  Lady  St. 
Eval,  with  their  little  boy,  arrived,  imparting  additional  happi- 
ness. Emmeline  was  surprised  at  seeing  them,  for  she  thought 
Lord  Louis  and  his  preceptor  were  expected  at  Castle  Terryn. 
Lord  St.  Eval  often  spoke  of  his  brother,  and  alluded  to  Myr- 
vin,  and  even  hinted  his  thanks  to  Emmeline  for  her  exertions 
in  the  latter's  favor,  when  the  Marquis  was  hesitating  whether 
or  not  to  intrust  him  with  the  charge  of  his  son ;  but  on  such 
matters  he  never  spoke  openly,  yet  not  so  guardedly  as  to  be- 
tray to  Emmeline  he  was  acquainted  with  her  secret. 

Mr.  Hamilton  had  many  private  conversations  both  with 
the  young  Earl  and  his  son  Herbert,  but  what  the  subject  was 
which  so  engrossed  him,  only  Mrs.  Hamilton  knew. 

The  return  of  Edward,  too,  from  a  short  cruise,  gave  addi- 
tional spirit  to  Oakwood.  The  young  sailor  had  rapidly  run 
thrc'igh  the  grades  of  lieutenant,  and  now  stood  the  first  on 
the  line  ;  his  character  both  as  a  sailor  and  a  man  was  con- 
firmed. He  was  as  deservedly  respected  by  his  messmates  as 
beloved  by  his  family,  and  to  Ellen  he  was  indeed  dear.  The 
most  perfect  confidence  existed  between  this  affectionate  bro- 
ther and  sister,  except  on  one  point,  and  on  that  even  to  Edward 
she  could  not  speak;  but  he  had  not  one  thought,  one  feeling 
which  he  concealed  from  her,  he  sought  no  other  friend. 
Scarcely  could  Mrs.  Cameron  and  her  son  Walter  recognize  in 
this  amiable  young  man  the  headstrong,  fiery,  overbearing  lad 
they  had  known  in  India 

The  little  party  at  Oakwood  had  all  either  walked  or  ridden 
out,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  alone  remained  at  home.  She  stood 
\>y  the  side  of  Emmeline,  who  was  asleep,  peacefully  and 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  357 

aweetly  ;  a  smile,  bright  and  beautiful  as  of  other  days,  played 
round  her  lips.  The  mother  reflected  on  the  words  of  Mr. 
Maitland.  who  had  assured* her,  the  remedy  he  proposed  would 
be  successful.  ';  Make  her  happy,  remove  this  weighty  load 
which  weighs  upon  her  heart,  and  she  will  live  to  be  the  bless- 
ing she  has  ever  been  to  all  who  love  her." 

Te^rs  of  mingled  feeling  rose  to  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Hamilton 
as  she  watched  her  child.  Emmeline's  lips  moved.  "  Arthur, 
dear  Arthur,"  she  murmured,  a  faint  flush  rising  to  her  cheek, 
and  the  smile  heightened  in  its  brilliancy ;  a  few  minutes,  and 
her  eyes  unclosed  ;  a  shade  of  disappointment  passed  over  her 
features,  a  faint  sigh  struggled  to  escape,  but  it  was  checked, 
for  she  met  her  mother's  fond  glance,  and  smiled. 

"  Why  are  you  not  gone  out,  dearest  mother,  this  lovely 
evening?  Why  stay  with  such  a  dull  companion  as  I  am? 
Percy  and  Edward  could  offer  so  many  more  attractions,  and 
I  am  sure  it  is  not  with  their  good-will  you  are  here." 

••  Would  my  Emmeline  refuse  me  the  sweet  pleasure  of 
watching  her.  tending  her  ?  Believe  me,  dearest,  without  you 
at  my  side,  the  park  and  this  lovely  evening  would  lose  half 
their  attractions." 

"  Do  not  say  so,  my  own*  mother,  I  am  not  ill,  only  lazy, 
and  that  you  were  not  wont  to  encourage  ;  my  eyes  would  close, 
spite  of  all  my  efforts.  But  why  should  you  have  the  uninter- 
esting task  of  watching  my  slumbers?" 

•'  Because,  dearest,  I  will  not  abandon  my  office,  till  it  is 
claimed  as  the  right  of  another.  It  will  soon  be,  my  Emme- 
line ;  but  do  not  send  me  from  your  side  till  then." 

"  The  right  of  another,  dearest  mother  ?  whose  right  will  it 
ever  be  but  yours  ?  who  can  ever  be  to  ine  the  tender  nurse 
that  you  have  been  ?  " 

"  One  who  will  vow  to  love,  protect,  and  cherish  you  ;  one 
who  loves  you,  my  own  Emmeline,  and  longs  to  claim  you  as 
his  own,  and  restore,  by  his  affection,  the  health  and  spirits  you 
have  lost ;  one  who  has  the  consent  and  blessing  of  your  father 
and  myself,  and  waits  but  for  yours." 

Emmeline  started  from  her  recumbent  posture. 

'•  Oh.  send  me  not  from  you,  mother,  my  owe  mother  !  Do 
not,  oh,  do  not  compel  me  to  marry !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 
of  agony.  ';  The  affection  of  a  husband  restore  my  health  ! 
oh,  no,  no.  no,  it  would  break  my  heart  at  once,  and  you  would 
send  me  from  you  but  to  die.  Mother,  oh,  let  me  stay  with 
you.  Do  not  let  my  father  command  my  obedience ;  in  every 


358  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

thing  else  I  will  obey  but  in  this."     She  hid  her  face  in  Mrs 
Hamilton's  bosom,  and  wept  bitterly. 

"  We  will  command  nothing  that  can  make  you  miserable, 
my  own."  replied  her  mother,  soothingly.  "But  you  will  love 
him,  my  Emmeline,  you  will  love  him  as  he  loves  you ;  hia 
fond  affection  cannot  fail  to  make  you  happy.  You  will  learn 
to  know  him — to  value  his  noble  virtues,  his  honorable  princi- 
ples. As  his  wife,  new  pleasures,  new  duties,  will  be  around 
you.  Health  will  return,  and  I  shall  see  my  Emmeline  once 
more  as  she  was — my  own  happy  child." 

"  And  has  it  indeed  gone  so  far  that  both  you  and  my  father 
have  consented,  and  I  must  disobey  and  displease  my  parents, 
or  be  miserable  for  life?" 

'•  My  child'/'  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  so  solemnly,  that  Emrae- 
line  involuntarily  checked  her  tears,  "my  child,  you  shall  never 
marry  the  husband  we  have  chosen  for  you.  unless  you  can  lo\e 
and  be  happy  with  him  ;  sacredly  and  irrevocably  I  promise 
this.  You  shall  not  sacrifice  yourself  for  a  doubtful  duty.  If, 
when  you  have  seen  and  known  him,  your  wishes  still  arc  con- 
trary to  ours,  we  will  not  demand  your  obedience.  If  you 
still  prefer  your  mother's  home,  never,  never  shall  you  go  from 
me.  Be  comforted,  my  Emmeline, — do  not  weep  thus.  Will 
you  not  trust  me  ?  If  you  cannot  love,  you  shall  not  marry." 

"  But,  my  father — oh,  mamma,  will  he  too  promise  me 
this  ?  " 

'•  Yes,  love  j  doubt  him  not,"  and  a  smile  so  cheering,  so 
happy,  was  round  Mrs.  Hamilton's  lips  as  she  spoke,  that  Em- 
meline felt  unconsciously  relieved.  '•  We  only  wish  our  Em- 
meline's  consent  to  an  introduction  to  this  estimable  young 
man,  who  ha?  so  long  and  so  faithfully  loved  her,  and  if  still 
she  is  inexorable  we  must  submit.  Could  I  send  you  from  me 
withou^  your  free  consent  ?  Could  I  part  from  you  except  for 
happiness  ?" 

Emmeline  thf;w  her  arms  about  her  mother's  neck.  In 
vain  she  struggled  to  ask  who  was  the  young  man  of  whom  her 
mother  spoke.  Why  should  she  inquire,  when  she  felt  that  he 
never,  never  could  be  any  thing  to  her  ?  Bitterly,  painfully  she 
Struggled  to  dismiss  the  thought  hastily  from  her  mind,  and 
gladly  hailed  the  entrance  of  the  nurse  with'her  little  nephew 
£S  a  relief.  Her  mother  joined  her  in  caressing  and  playing 
with  him,  and  ere  he  jvas  dismissed  the  scattered  parties  had 
returned,  and  there  was  no  opportunity  for  farther  confidential 
converse. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  35& 

It  was  a  happy,  merry  party  at  Oakwood,  but  the  presence 
of  Lilla  Orahame  was  wanting  to  make  it  complete.  Ellen  was 
constantly  with  her.  for  she  would  not  permit  the  lively  pro- 
ceedings of  home  to  interfere  with  the  call  of  friendship  ;  and 
in  this  task  of  kindness  she  was  constantly  joined  by  Edward, 
who  would  frequently  leave  gayer  amusements  to  offer  Lillu 
his  company  on  her  walk,  and  his  intelligent  conversation,  his 
many  amusing  anecdotes,  frequently  drew  a  smile  from  his 
young  listener,  and.  combined  with  Ellen's  presence  and  niorfj 
quiet  sympathy,  raised  her  spirits,  and  encouraged  her  in  her 
painful  task  of  bearing  with,  if  she  could  not  soothe,  her  father's 
still  irritable  temperament.  Woodlands  was  to  be  sold ;  for 
Mr.  Grahaine  had  resolved  on  burying  himself  and  his  child  in 
some  retired  cottage,  where  his  very  existence  might  be  forgot- 
ten. In  vain  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  combated  this  resolu- 
tion, and  entreated  him  at  least  to  settle  near  them;  gloomy, 
almost  morose,  he  still  spoke  of  Wales  as  the  only  place  where 
he  was  not  known,  where  his  name  might  not  be  associated 
with  disgrace.  Lilla  was  just  of  an  age  to  feel  the  parting 
with  the  kind  friends  of  her  childhood  as  a  most  painful  trial, 
but  she  determined  to  reconcile  herself  to  her  father's  will, 
whatever  it  might  be. 

Captain  Cameron  too  was  an  agreeable  addition  to  the  soci- 
ety of  Oakvyood  ;  high-spirited,  and  naturally  joyous,  Percy 
liked  him  as  a  kindred  spirit ;  and  reserved,  though  intelligent, 
Herbert  found  many  points  of  his  character  assimilate  with 
his.  Mrs.  Cameron's  station  in  life  had  been  somewhat  raised 
since  her  return  to  England.  Sir  Hector  Cameron,  her  hus- 
band's elder  brother,  childless  and  widowed,  found  his  morose 
and  somewhat  miserly  disposition  softened,  and  his  wish  to 
know  his  brother's  family  became  too  powerful  to  be  resisted. 
He  had  seen  Walter  in  Ireland,  and  admired  the  young  man 
ere  he  knew  who  he  was;  a  farther  acquaintance,  ere  he  dis- 
covered himself  as  his  uncle,  heightened  these  good  impres- 
sions, and  Walter,  to  his  utter  astonishment,  found  himself 
suddenly  the  heir  to  a  rich  baronetcy,  and  his  mother  and 
sisters  comfortably  provided  for.  He  rejoiced  at  his  good  for- 
tune, but  not  at  the  baronetcy  itself;  not  for  the  many  plea- 
sures which,  as  Sir  Hector's  heir,  now  stood  temptingly  before 
him.  but  because  he  might  now  indeed  encourage  an  affection, 
which  he  had  once  believed  was  as  hopeless  as  it  was  intense. 

There  is  but  one  person  whom  we  knew  in  a  former  page 
whose  fate  we  have  omitted  to  mention  ;  it  may  be  well  to  do 


360  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

so  here,  ere  we  proceed  regularly  with  our  narrative.  The 
high-minded,  unselfish,  truth-loving  Lady  Gertrude  Lyle  had  at 
length,  to  the  great  joy  of  her  parents,  consented  to  reward 
long  years  of  silent  devotion,  by  bestowing  her  hand  on  the 
Marquis  of  Alford.  They  were  married,  and  need  we  say  that 
they  were  happy  ?  Lady  Gertrude's  love  to  her  husband  in- 
creased with  each  passing  year,  and  he,  as  time  paased  on, 
missed  nothing  of  that  bright  example  of  goodness,  of  piety, 
arid  virtue,  which  had  led  him  to  deserve  her  love. 

"  Emmeline,  dearest,  put  on  your  prettiest  dress  to-night, 
and  confine  these  flowing  curls  with  some  tasteful  wreath," 
said  Mr.  Hamilton,  playfully  addressing  his  daughter,  about  a 
week  after  the  conversation  with  her  mother.  The  dressing- 
bell  had  sounded,  and  the  various  inmates  of  Oakwood  were 
obeying  its  summons  as  he  spoke,  and  Caroline  laughingly 
asked  her  father  how  long  he  had  taken  such  an  interest  in 
dress.  "  Does  your  ladyship  think  I  never  do  T'  he  replied, 
with  mock  gravity. 

"  Do  you  remember  when  my  dear  father's  own  hand 
wreathed  a  sprig  of  scarlet  geranium  in  my  hair,  some  ten 
years  ago,  when  I  was  a  vain  and  wilful  girl  ?"  replied  the 
young  Countess,  without  heeding  his  question,  and  looking  up 
with  fond  affection  in  his  face.  "  Ah.  papa,  no  flower,  even 
when  formed  of  gems,  ever  gave  me  so  much  pleasure  as  \hat." 

t;  Not  even  when  placed  within  these  glossy  curls  by  St. 
Eval's  hand  ?  Are  you  not  jealous.  Eugene  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  my  dear  sir,"  replied  the  Earl,  laughing. 
"  I  have  heard  of  that  flower,  and  the  good  effects  it  produced." 

"  You  have  heard  of  it,  have  you  'I  I  should  have  fancied 
my  Caroline  had  long  ere  this  forgotten  it." 

Lady  St.  Eval  smiled  reproachfully  as  she  quitted  the 
room,  and  Mr.  Hamilton,  turning  to  Emmeline,  took  her  hand 
fondly,  and  said,  "  Why  does  my  Emmeline  look  so  grave  ? 
Does  she  not  approve  of  her  father  taking  an  interest  in  her 
dress?  But  it  is  not  for  me  I  wish  you  to  look  pretty  to-night, 
I  will  confess  ;  for  another,  Emmeline,  one  whom  I  expect  you 
will,  for  my  sake,  do  all  in  your  power  to  please,  and — and 
love.  Do  not  start,  my  child,  the  task  will  not  be  very  diffi- 
cult." He  kissed  her  cheek  with  a  cheerful  smile,  and  left 
her,  motionless  and  pale,  every  feature  expressive  of  passive 
endurance,  her  hands  clasped  tightly  on  her  heart.  Emmeline 
eat  before  her  mirror,  and  permitted  Fanny  to  arrange  her 
beautiful  hair  as  she  would  ;  to  her  it  mattered  not.  The 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  361 

words  of  her  father  alriv?  rung  in  her  ears.  That  night  sealod 
her  fate.  Fanny  spoke,  for  she  was  alarmed  at  her  young 
lady's  manner,  but  Emmeline  answered  as  if  she  had  heard  her 
not.  and  the  business  of  the  toilette  passed  in  silence.  Yet  so 
well  had  it  been  performed,  so  fair  and  lovely  did  that  gentle 
girl  look,  as  she  entered  the  drawing-room,  that  every  eye  was 
fixed  on  her  in  admiration.  The  graceful  folds  of  an  India 
muslin  dress  enveloped  her  slight  form,  and  a  wreath  of  lilies 
of  the  valley,  twined  with  the  smallest  pink  rose-buds,  confined 
her  luxuriant  hair;  a  scarcely  perceptible  blush  was  on  her 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes,  continually  wandering  round  the  room, 
as  if  in  search  for  some  unseen  object,  shone  with  unusual 
brilliancy.  Her  father  whispered,  as  he  found  himself  near 
aer — 

"  I  do  not  expect  my  friend  will  arrive  till  late,  my  little 
jfimmy,  but  look  as  pretty  then  as  you  do  now,  and  I  shall  be 
^satisfied." 

She  was  relieved,  but  intelligence  met  her  ear,  ere  dinner 
was  conducted,  that  rendered  it  a  fearful  struggle  to  retain 
her  composure.  Mrs.  Cameron's  family,  Mr.  Hoivard,  and 
one  or  two  others,  she  knew  were  coming  in  the  evening,  but 
that  Lord  St.  Eval  expected  his  brother  Louirf  to  arrive  at 
Oakwood,  by  eight  or  nine  o'clock  that  same  evening,  was  in- 
deed information  startling  in  the  extreme.  Would  he  not  be 
accompanied  by  his  preceptor  ?  Would  she  not  see  him,  from 
whom  she  had  been  so  long  parted?, see  him,  to  whom  her 
heart  was  given,  and  in  his  presence  be  introduced  to  the  hus- 
band of  her  parent's  choice  ? 

Mrs.  Hamilton  watched  her  with  extreme  uneasiness,  and 
when  dinner  was  over,  whisperedj  as  it  seemed,  an  earnest  en- 
treat} in  her  husband's  ear.  He  shook  his  head  in  sportive 
refusal .  ?he  still  appeared  anxious,  but  acquiesced.  The  hours 
passed  on.  Emmeline  for  a  few  minutes  had  retired,  for  the 
happiness,  the  gayety  around  her,  pressed  with  overpowering 
heaviness  on  her  heart;  she  had  turned  from  it  almost  uncon- 
eciouoly.  ';  Why,  oh,  why  did  I  not  confess  to  mamma  that  I 
could  not  wed  another,  because  I  still  loved  Arthur?  why  was  I 
go  foolish  as  to  fear  to  confess  the  truth,  we  should  not  then  have 
met?  Why  have  I  been  so  weak,  to  hide  these  miserable 
feelings  even  from  my  mother  ?  how  can  I  expect  her  sympa- 
thy, when  she  knows  them  not  ?" 

So  she  thought,  but  it  was  now  too  late.  The  affectionate 
oaresses,  the  kind  voice  of  her  cousin  Ellen  aroused  her ;  con- 
16 


362  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

trolling  herself,  she  took  Ellen's  arm,  and  together  they  en- 
tered the  drawing-room.  She  saw -no  strangers,  all  were  fa- 
miliar to  her  eye,  and  rallying  her  spirits,  she  entered  into 
conversation  with  St.  Eval,  who  hastened  up  to  her  as  she 
entered.  Ellen  joined  the  Cancers. 

"  I  wonder  why  we  all  seem  so  gay  and  happy  to-night," 
said  St.  Eval.  "  Look  at  Captain  Cameron  and  our  pretty 
demure  cousin  Ellen,  Erumeline  ;  I  never  saw  such  devotion 
in  my  life.  Take  my  word  for  it,  that  will  be  a  match  one  of 
these  days,  and  a  very  pretty  one.  Cameron  is  a  good  fellow, 
and  if  ever  any  one  were  smitten,  he  is." 

"But  Ellen's  admiration  of  his  character  is  rather  too  open 
and  freely  expressed  for  him  to  hope  his  affection,  if  he  do 
love,  is  returned.  No,  Eugene,  Captain  Cameron  may  be  at- 
tracted, I  grant  you,  but  I  do  not  fancy  he  will  be  Ellen's 
choice.*' 

"  Do  you  know  any  whom  you  think  will  ?" 

"  What  a  question,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  to  tempt  me  to 
betray  m^ousin's  secrets,  if  she  had  any,  but  candidly  I  must 
admit  thaTas  yet  I  know  none.  It  is  a  strange  fancy,  but  I 
often  think  Ellen  will  be  an  old  maid." 

"  Why,  is  she  so  precise,  so  prim,  so  opinionated,  so  crabbed  1 
For  shame,  Emmeline.  even  to  hint  such  a  thing." 

"  Nay,  St.  Eval,  the  shame  is  rather  yours,  for  daring  to 
associate  such  terms  with  a  single  woman.  To  go  through 
life  alone,  without  sympathy,  without  any  call  for  natural  af 
fections.  always  appears  at  first  sight  rather  melancholy  than 
otherwise ;  but  why  should  dislike  and  prejudice  be  added  to 
them  i  I  cannot  think  that  a  woman's  remaining  unman icd 
is  any  proof  of  her  being  unamiable." 

"Indeed,  I  am  not  so  unjust,"  said  the  -Earl,  smiling; 
"when  old  maids  conduct  themselves  properly,  I  esteem  them 
quite  as  much  and  more  than  some  married  women.  But  still 
Ellen  shall  not  be  an  old  maid  ;  she  is  too  pretty  and  too 
good,  and  would  bless  any  man  who  may  be  happy  enough 
to  gain  her  affections  and  esteem.  But  you,  Emmeline.  you, 
surely,  will  not  be  an  old  maid,  though  you  are  so  warm  in 
their  defence." 

-  My  lot  is  not  in  my  own  hands — do  not  speak  of  that, 
Eugene,"  she  said,  with  a  quivering  lip;  and  hastily  turning 
from  his  gaze,  she  added,  "as  you  seem  to  know  every  bodys 
concerns  in  the  room,  what  are  Mrs.  Cameron  and  Florenca 
talking  so  intently  about  ?" 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  363 

"  On  the  old  subject :  my  madcap  brother  Louis  and  his 
sage  tutor.  By  the  by,  Emmy,  I  have  never  asked  what  you 
think  of  Myrvin's  conduct  in  this  affair ;  did  he  not  behave 
admirably?" 

'•  He  did  but  his  duty,"  replied  Emmeline,  firmly.  "  He 
acted  but  as  every  man  of  generous  feelings  would  have  done ; 
it  was  his  duty,  for  he  had  pledged  himself  to  the  care  of  his 
pupil,  and  could  he  have  left  him  in  his  sickness?  The  dic- 
tates of  common  humanity,  the  social  duties  of  life  would  have 
prevented  him." 

';  What  a  pity  Florence  does  not  hear  you ;  such  calm  rea- 
soning would  destroy  all  the  glow  of  romance  which  she  has 
thrown  around  these  incidents.  But  indeed  you  do  not  give 
Myrvin  his  due,  every  man  does  not  perform  his  duty." 

"  Every  man  ought,  and  when  he  does  not,  he  is  wrong ;  as 
when  he  does,  he  is  right." 

"  But  this  is  contrary  to  your  own  principle,  Emmetine. 
What  has  become  of  the  enthusiasm  which  once  bade  you 
condemn  all  such  cold  judgments,  such  scanty  praise  ?  Once 
upon  a  time,  you  would  have  looked  on  such  conduct  very 
differently." 

Emmeline  turned  away,  but  St.  Eval  saw  her  eyes  were 
swimming  in  tears.  He  continued,  sportively — 

"  Be  assured,  I  will  tell  Myrvin  as  soon  as  I  see  him." 

'•  I  beg  you  will  not,  my  Lord,"  Emmeline  said,  struggling 
to  retain  her  calmness ;  but  failing,  she  added,  entreatingly, 
"  dearest  Eugene,  if  you  have  any  regard  for  me,  do  not  repeat 
my  words ;  let  them  pass  with  the  subject,  it  has  engrossed  us 
quite  enough." 

St.  Eval  shook  his  head  in  playful  reproof.  They  sat 
apart  from  the  dancers,  and  feeling  neither  her  words  nor  any 
subsequent  agitation  could  be  remarked,  she  placed  her  trem- 
bling hand  in  St.  Eval's,  and  said,  almost  inarticulately — 

"  Eugene,  tell  me,  does  Arthur — Mr.  Myrvin,  accompany 
Lord  Louis  to-night  ?  Do  not  deceive  me." 

'•  He  does,"  he  replied  instantly.  ';  and  what  detains  them  I 
cannot  understand.  But  fear  nothing,  dearest  Emmeline,  I 
know  all ;  you  may  trust  me,  fear  nothing.  And  now  your 
promise — the  quadrille  is  formed,  they  only  wait  for  us." 

"  I  know  all,  fear  nothing,"  Emmeline  internally  repented, 
her  whole  frame  trembling  with  agitation,  as  kindly  and  en- 
couragingly St.  Eval  led  her  to  the  place  assigned  them.  She 
forced  herself  to  think  only  on  the  dance,  on  the  amusing  an- 


364  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

ecdotes  he  was  telling  her,  on  the  light  laugh,  the  ready  jest 
that  were  sparkling  around  her.  Her  natural  grace  in  dancing 
forsook  her  not,  nor  did  she  refuse  her  sister's  request,  when 
the  quadrille  was  finished,  that  she  would  take  out  her  harp. 
She  seated  herself  at  the  instrument,  and  commenced. 

Music  had  not  lost  its  charm ;  rapt  in  the  exquisite  air  she 
was  playing,  it  seemed  to  soothe  her  agitated  feelings,  and  bid 
her  forget  her  usual  timidity.  All  were  silent,  for  the  air  was 
so  sweet,  so  plaintive,  not  a  voice  could  have  disturbed  it ;  it 
changed  to  a  quicker,  more  animated  strain,  and  at  that  instant 
Emmeline  beheld  Edward  and  Ellen  hastily  rise  to  greet  a 
young  man,  who  noiselessly  yet  eagerly  came  forward  to  meet 
them:  it  was  Lord  Louis.  Emmeline  started;  a  strong  effort 
alone  enabled  her  to  command  herself  sufficiently  to  continue 
playing,  but  her  fingers  now  moved  mechanically ;  every  pulse 
throbbed  so  violently,  and  to  her  car  so  loudly,  that  she  no 
longer  heard  the  notes  she  played.  All  was  a  mist  before  her 
eyes,  and  the  animated  plaudits  that  greeted  her  as  she  ceased, 
rung  in  her  ears  as  unmeaning,  unintelligible  sounds.  Lord 
Louis  hastily  advanced  to  lead  her  from  the  harp,  and  to  tell 
her  how  very  glad  he  was  to*  see  her  again,  though  even  his 
usually  careless  eye  lost  its  mirthful  expression,  as  he  marked 
the  alteration  in  his  favorite  companion.  Emmeline  tried  to 
smile  and  answer  him  in  his  own  strain,  but  her  smile  was 
sickly  and  faint,  and  her  voice  trembled  audibly  as  she  spoke. 
She  looked. round,  fearing  yet  longing  to  see  another,  but  Lord 
Louis  was  alone.  His  preceptor  was  not  near  him,  but  Mr. 
anv.  Mrs.  Hamilton,  St.  Eval  and  Herbert  had  also  left  the 
room.  Some  little  time  passed  in  animated  conversation,  stiL 
Myrvin  diJ  not  appear. 

"  You  are  wanted  in  the  library,  dearest  Emmeline,"  said 
the  young  Countess  St.  Eval. 

"  Come  with  me,  Emmeline  ;  foolish  girl,  '  fear  nothing,'  " 
(Klid  the  Earl,  joyously. 

"Smile,  gentle  one,"  he  whispered,  as  she  turned  her  be 
seeching  glance  towards  him,  "  do  not  greet  the  husband  your 
parents  have  selected  for  you  with  a  countenance  such  as  this ; 
pay.  fear  nothing,"  he  repeated,  as  her  steps  faltered,  and  every 
limb  trembled  at  his  words.  Again  he  smiled  as  he  had  onca 
before  during  that  evening,  and  for  the  first  time  a  gleam  of 
sudden  light  darted  across  the  bewildered  mind  of  the  agitated 
girl,  but  so  dazzling  were  the  rays,  so  overpowering  the  bril- 
lianey,  from  the  contrast  with  the  deep  gloom  which  had  been 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  365 

there  before,  that  she  could  not  believe  it  real ;  aha  deemed  it 
gome  wild  freak  of  fancy,  that  sportive  fancy  which  had  so  long 
deserted  her.  St.  Eval  hurried  on,  supporting  rather  than 
loading  his  companion.  They  reached  the  library,  and  Ein- 
meline's  agitation  increased  almost  to  fainting;  she  leaned 
moie  heavily  on  St.  Eval's  arm ;  though  her  heart  beat  almost 
audibly,  and  her  cheek  vied  in  its  paleness  with  a  marble 
statue  near  her,  not  a  word  betrayed  her  emotion.  There  wero 
many  lights  within  the  library,  a  group  was  gathered  round 
th }  centre  table,  but  to  Emmeline  all  was  indistinct,  not  one 
amongst  them  could  she  recognize.  Her  father  hastened 
towards  her,  he  took  her  trembling  hand  in  his,  and  led  her 
gently  forward. 

"  Look  up,  my  beloved,"  he  said  tenderly ;  "  we  have  sent 
for  jou  to  ratify  the  consent  your  mother  and  I  have  given 
given  on  condition,  that  if  yours  be  withheld,  ours  also  is  void. 
But  will  the  long  years  of  silent  love  and  uncomplaining  suffering 
for  your  sake,  plead  in  vain  to  one  so  gentle  as  yourself?  Look 
up,  my  Emmeline,  and  tell  me,  if  the  fond  affection,  the  tender 
cares  of  him  whom  we  have  chosen,  will  not  indeed  prove  the 
best  restorative  we  can  bestow  ?" 

She  did  look  up,  and  the  quick  gushing  flow  of  blood  dyed 
her  pallid  cheek  with  crimson,  and  lit  up  her  soft  eyes  with 
their  wonted  lustre.  There  was  one  tall,  manly  form  beside 
her,  gazing  on  her  with  such  devoted  love,  that  she  saw  not 
how  pale  were  those  expressive  features,  what  a  deep  impress 
of  long  suffering  was  on  that  high  and  noble  brow.  She 
heard  naught  but  that  deep  rich  voice  pronounce  her  name, 
and  call  her  "  his  own,  own  Emmeline,"  for  she  had  sunk  in 
his  extended  arms,  she  had  hidden  her  face  upon  his  shouldei 
and  wept. 

"  Are  TS  e  forgiven,  Emmeline,  dearest  ?"  said  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, fondly,  after  a  long  pause,  which  many  mingled  feelings' 
had  occasioned.  Her  child  withdrew  for  a  moment  from  the 
arms  of  her  betrothed,  and  flung  herself  upon  her  neck.  "  Your 
father  bound  me  by  a  promise  not  to  reveal  his  secret,  and  1 
kept  it  well  till  this  evening ;  for  did  you  not  deserve  some 
punishment,  my  child,  for  believing  even  for  a  single  moment 
your  parents  would  have  rewarded  your  unwavering  discharge 
of  a  most  painful  duty,  your  unhesitating  submission  to  our 
will,  by  forcing  you  to  bestow  your  hand  upon  another,  when 
your  heart  was  already  engaged  ?  No,  my  own  Emmeline,  we 
could  not  have  heen  so  cruel.  Take  her,  my  dear  Arthur ; 


SG6  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

freely,  fearlessly  I  consign  her  happiness  to  your  charge,  foi 
indeed  you  have  well  deserved  her." 

We  need  not  lift  the  veil  from  the  brief  interview  which 
the  consideration  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  aiforded  to  the 
lovers,  it  is  enough  that  they  were  happy,  happy  in  the  con- 
sciousness not  of  present  joy  alone,  but  of  duty  unshrinkingly 
performed,  of  pain  endured  with  unrepining  fortitude  ;  unal- 
loyed in  its  purity  indeed  was  their  happiness,  fcr  it  was  tho 
recompense  of  virtue. 

When  the  tidings  of  what  had  passed  were  made  known, 
there  were  few  who  did  not  feel  as  if  some  individual  joy  had 
been  imparted.  The  universal  sympathy  occasioned  by  the 
happiness  of  a  being  so  generally  beloved  as  Emmeline  shed 
new  animation  over  the  little  party.  And  Ellen,  the  gentle, 
affectionate  Ellen,  did  not  she  rejoice?  She  did.  unfeignedly, 
sincerely,  but  there  was  a  pang  of  bitterness  mingled  with  it 
which  she  vainly  struggled  to  subdue. 

Can  you  consent  to  live  in  the  humble  vicarage  of  my  es- 
tate, Emmeline  ?"  whispered  the  young  Earl  in  her  ear,  as  she 
relinquished  the  arm  of  Arthur,  whom  Edward,  Percy,  and 
Ellen  were  eagerly  surrounding.  "You  have  often  admired  it. 
Will  it  serve  you  for  a  home,  think  you  ?  if  not,  name  what 
alterations  you  will  like,  and  they  shall  be  done,  even  as  if 
Aladdin's  wonderful  genii  had  performed  it." 

"  Dearest  Engene,"  said  Emmeline,  "  I  feel  it  is  to  you, 
to  your  generous  pleadings  in  Arthur's  favor,  I  greatly  owe 
this  happiness.  Will  you  not  let  me  thank  you  for  that,  in- 
stead of  asking  more  ?" 

"  No,  little  fairy,  I  will  do  no  such  thing,  for  I  only  spoke 
the  truth  and  that,  Emmeline,  '  was  but  my  duty]  and  demands 
no  thanks  or  praire  whatever ;  and  as  I  have  selected  my  friend 
Myrvin  to  supply  tbe  place  of  my  late  vicar,  who  was  promoted 
last  week  to  a  better  living,  to  see  every  thing  prepared  for  his 
comfort,  and  that  of  his  wife,  is  also  mine." 

"  Nay.  spare  me,  dear  St  Eval ;  I  will  plead  guilty  of  not 
giving  Arthur  his  due.  if  you  M  ill  promise  me  not  always  to 
torment  me  with  duty.  I  was  unjust  and  unkind." 
.  *  No,  dearest  Emmy,  you  were  neither  unjust  nor  unkind  , 
you  only  said  one  thing,  and  meant  another,  and  as  I  know 
why  you  did  so,  I  forgive  you." 

Mrs.  Cameron's  family  and  the  other  guests  having  de- 
parted, and  only  Mr.  Hamilton's  own  circle  lingering  in  the 
drawing-room,  some  surprise  was  occasioned  to  all  except  Mrs. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  367 

Hamilton  and  Percy,  by  Mr.  Hamilton  suddenly  laying  bis 
hand  gently  on  Herbert's  shoulder,  and  saying  earnestly, 
though  somewhat  playfully — 

*  One  surprise  and  one  cause  for  congratulation  we  might, 
I  think,  deem  sufficient  for  one  evening,  but  I  intend  being 
the  happy  messenger  of  another  event,  which  may  chance  to 
be  even  more  surprising,  and  certainly  not  less  joyful.  I  beg 
you  will  all  offer  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  myself  your  warmest 
congratulations,  for  the  same  day  that  gives  us  a  new  son  will, 
I  trust,  bestow  on  us  another  daughter.  This  quiet  young 
man  intends  taking  unto  himself  a  wife ;  and  as  it  may  be 
some  little  time  ere  we  can  bring  her  home  from  France,  the 
best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  anticipate  two  marriages  in  one 
day." 

"  Herbert,  my  true  English  bred  and  English  feeling  ccnsin. 
marry  a  French  woman !  by  my  good  sword,  you  shall  not," 
said  Edward,  laughing,  when  the  universal  surprise  and  joy 
which  this  information  had  excited  had  somewhat  subsided. 
The  eager  question  who  was  Herbert's  choice,  was  asked  by 
Caroline  and  Emmeline  together. 

"  Fear  nothing,  Master  Lieutenant,"  St.  Eval  said,  ere 
Herbert  could  reply;  "  my  wits,  though  a  landsman,  are  not 
quite  so  blunt  as  yours,  and  I  guess  better  than  you  do.  Is  it 
possible  no  one  here  can  tell?  has  my  demure  brother  Iler- 
-  ••rt.'s  secret  never  been  suspected  ?  Caroline,  what  has  become 
uf  your  penetration;  and  Emmeline,  your  romance?  Ellen, 
can  not  you  guess?" 

'•  Yes,"  she  replied,  instantly,  though  as  she  spoke  a  sud- 
den crimson  rose  to  her  cheek,  which,  though  unuoticed,  had 
been,  while  Mr.  Hamilton  spoke,  pale  as  death. 

"  May  you,  may  you  be  happy,  dearest  Herbert,"  she  add- 
ed, calmly,  as  she  extended  her  hand  to  him;  "few  are  so 
fitted  to  make  you  so.  few  can  so  truly  sympathize  in  your 
feelings  as  Mary  Greville." 

"  You  are  right,  you  are  right,  Ellen,"  said  Lady  Emily 
Lylc,  as  Herbert  warmly  pressed  his  cousin's  hand,  and  thank- 
ed her  in  that  low  thrilling  voice  so  peculiarly  his  own  ;  and 
then,  with  a  countenance  radiant  with  animated  joy,  turned 
towards  the  little  group,  and  thanking  them  for  the  joy  with 
which  his  Mary's  name  was  universally  greeted,  turned  to 
Edward  and  asked,  with  a  smile,  if  Mary  were  not  sufficiently 
English  to  content  him. 

"  Quite,  quite ;  I  would  even  ge  over  to  France  for  the  saka 


3G8  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

of  bringing  her  to  England  in  my  gallant  Gem,"  replied  thf 
young  sailor.  ':  She  is  the  best  wife  you  could  have  chosen,  Her- 
bert, for  you  were  ever  alongside,  even  .in  your  boyish  days; 
and  it  would  have  been  a  sin  and  shame  for  you  to  have  mar- 
ried any  one  else.  Percy,  why  do  you  not  follow  such  an  ex 
cellent  example  ? 

K  I — because  a  bachelor's  life  has  not  yet  lost  its  charms 
for  me,  Edward  !  I  like  my  own  ease,  my  own  pleasure  best, 
and  wish  to  be  free  a  short  time  longer,'1  replied  the  young 
man,  stretching  himself  on  a  sofa,  with  a  comic  air  of  noncha- 
lance and  affectation  ;  then  starting  up,  he  added,  theatrically, 
"  I  am  going  to  be  a  senator,  a  senator  ;  and  how  in  the  world 
can  I  think  of  matrimony  but  as  a  state  of  felicity  unsuited  to 
such  a  hard-working  fellow  as  I  am,  or  rather  mean  to  be  ?" 

';  I  commend  you  for  the  correction  in  your  speech,  Perc^," 
said  his  mother,  smiling.  Mean  to  be  and  am  are  two  very  dif- 
ferent things." 

:'  But  iu  me  may  chance  so  to  amalgamate  as  to  become  the 
same.  Mother,  who  would  believe  you  could  be  so  severe  ? 
But  I  forgive  you ;  one  of  these  days  you  will  regret  your  in- 
justice: that  smile  says  I  wish  I  may.  Well,  we  shall  .see. 
And  now,  lords  and  ladies,  to  bed,  to  bed.  I  have  swallowed 
such  large  draughts  of  surprise  to-night.  I  can  bear  no  more. 
A  kind  good  nighv  to  all.  Myrvin,"  he  called  out  from  the 
hall,  "  if  you  are  as  early  to-morrow  as  you  were  at  Oxford,  we 
will  be  off  to  Trevilion  and  inspect  your  new  vicarage  before 
breakfast,  and  back  by  night." 

'•  Not  to-morrow,  Arthur,"  entreated  Emmeline,  in  a  low 
voice,  as  he  followed  her  from  the  room. 

"  Not  to-morrow,  dearest,"  he  replied,  tenderly,  as  he  drew 
her  to  his  bosom,  and  bade  God  bless  her. 

The  other  members  of  the  family  also  separated.  Ellen  one 
of  the  last,  for  lady  Emily  at  first  detained  her  in  some  trifling 
converse,  ana  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  telling  her  of  something  she 
wished  her  niece  to  do  for  her  the  next  morning.  Ellen  was 
standing  in  the  shade  as  her  aunt 'spoke;  all  had  left  the 
room  except  Edward  and  themselves,  and  humming  a  lively 
air,  the  former  was  departing,  when  turning  round  to  wish  her 
Bister  good  night,  the  light  flashed  full  upon  her  face,  and 
there  was  something  in  its  expression,  in  its  almost  une.irthly 
piileness,  that  made  him  suddenly  start  and  cease  his  song. 

'•  Merciful  heaven  !  Ellen,  what  is  the  matter?  You  loci 
like  a  ghost." 


THE  MOTHER'?  RECOMPENSE.  369 

"  Do  not  be  silly,  Edward,  there  is  nothing  the  matter.  I 
am  quite  well,  only  warm,"  she  replied,  struggling  to  smile  • 
but  her  voice  was  so  choked,  her  smile  so  unnatural,  that  not 
only  her  brother  but  her  aunt  was  alarmed. 

"  You  are  deceiving  us,  my  dear  girl,  you  are  not  well. 
Are  you  in  pain,  dearest  1"  she  said,  hastening  towards  her. 

"  Ellen  had  borne  up  well  when  unnoticed  ;  but  the  voice 
of  kindness,  the  fond  caress  her  aunt  bestowed,  completely 
overpowered  her,  and,  sinking  on  a  chair,  she  burst  into 
tears. 

'•  It  is  nothing,  indeed  it  is  nothing,  my  dear  aunt,"  she 
said,  with  a  strong  effort  checking  the  bursting  sob.  "  I  have 
felt,  the  heat  very  oppressive  all  the  evening ;  it  is  only  that 
which  makes  me  so  foolish." 

"  I  hope  it  is  only  the  heat,  my  Ellen,"  replied  Mrs.  Ham 
ilton,  fondly,  suspicion  flashing  across  her  mind,  not  indeed  of 
the  truth,  but  something  near  akin  to  it.  For  a  few  minutes 
Ellen  leaned  her  head  silently  against  her  aunt,  who  continued 
bending  over  her,  then  returning  her  affectionate  kiss,  shook 
hands  with  her  brother,  assured  him  she  was  quite  .veil,  and 
quietly  left  the  room. 

k'  Now,  then,  I  know  indeed  my  fate,"  Ellen  murmured  in- 
ternally, as  her  aching  head  rested  on  a  sleepless  pillow,  and 
h2r  clasped  hands  were  pressed  against  her  heart  to  stop  its 
suffocating  throbs.  "  Why  am  I  thus  overwhelmed,  as  if  I  had 
ever  hoped,  as  if  this  were  unexpected  1  Have  I  not  known 
it,  have  I  not  felt  that  she  would  ever  be  his  choice  1  that  I 
was  mad  enough  to  love  one,  who  from  his  boyhood  loved 
another.  Why  has  it  fallen  on  me  as  a  shock  for  which  I  was 
utterly  unprepared  1  What  has  become  of  my  many  resolu- 
tions 1  Why  should  the  task  be  more  difficult  now  than  it 
has  been  1  I  feel  as  if  life  were  irksome  to  me,  as  if  all  I . 
loved  were  turned  to  that  bitterness  of  spirit  against  which  I 
have  striven,  as  if  I  could  dash  from  my  poor  cousin's  lips  the 
cup  of  unexpected  happiness  she  has  only  this  evening  tasted. 
Oh,  merciful  Father  !  forsaks  me  not  now ;  let  me  not  feel 
thus ;  only  fill  my  heart  with  love  and  charity ;  take  from  me 
this  bitterness  and  envy.  It  is  Thou  that  dispenseth  this 
bitter  cup.  Father,  I  recognize  Thy  hand,  and  would  indeed 
resign  myself  to  Thee.  Oh,  enable  me  to  do  so ;  teach  me  to 
love  Thee  alone,  to  do  Thy  work,  to  subdue  myself,  and  in 
thankfulness  receive  the  many  blessings  still  around  me ;  let 
me  but  see  them  happy.  Oh,  my  Father,  let  thy  choicest 
16* 


370  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

blessings  be  his  lot,  and  for  me" — it  was  a  bitter  struggle^ 
but  ere  the  night  had  passed  that  young  spirit  had  conquered, 
had  uttered  fervently,  trustingly,  heartfully. — •'  for  me,  oh,  my 
Father,  let  Thy  will  be  done."  And  Ellen  joined  the  break- 
fast-table the  following  morning  calm  and  cheerful ;  there 
was  no  trace  of  internal  suffering,  no  sign  to  betray  even 
to  her  aunt  all  that  she  endured.  She  entered  cheerfully  into 
all  Emmeline's  happiness,  accompanied  her  and  Arthur,  with 
Lord  and  Lady  St.  Eval,  to  Trevilion,  and  entered  into  every 
suggested  plan,  as  if  indeed  no  other  thoughts  engrossed  her. 
Arthur  and  Emmeline  found  in  her  an  active  and  affectionate 
friend,  and  the  respect  and  love  with  which  she  felt  herself  re- 
garded seemed  to  soothe,  while  it  urged  her  on  to  increased 
exertion.  Mrs.  Hamilton  watched  her  anxiously ;  she  had  at 
first  fancied  Arthur  was  the  object  of  her  niece's  regard,  but 
this  idea  was  not  strengthened,  and  though  she  felt  as- 
sured such  was  not  the  real  cause  of  Ellen;s  agitation  that 
eventful  evening,  she  could  not,  and  did  not  guess  the 
truth. 

The  revealing  a  long-treasured  secret,  the  laying  bare 
feelings  of  the  heart,  which  have  so  long  been  concealed,  even 
to  our  dearest  friends,  does  not  always  produce  happiness ; 
Ihere  is  a  blank  within  us,  a  yearning  after  something  we 
know  not  what,  and  the  spirit  loses  for  a  time  its  elasticity. 
It  may  be  that  the  treasured  secret  has  been  so  long  en- 
shrined in  our  innermost  souls,  we  have  felt  it  so  long  as  only 
our  own,  that  when  we  betray  it  to  others,  it  is  as  if  we  parted 
from  a  friend ;  it  is  no  longer  our  own,  we  can  no  longer  hold 
sweet  communion  with  it,  for  the  voice  of  the  world  bath  also 
reached  it,  and  though  at  first  its  revealing  is  joy,  it  is  fol- 
lowed by  a  sorrow.  So  Herbert  felt,  when  the  excitement  of 
congratulation,  of  the  warm  sympathy  of  his  friends  had  given 
place  to  solicitude  and  thought.  Mary  had  been  so  long  the 
shrine  of  his  secret,  fondest  thoughts,  he  had  so  long  indulged 
in  delicious  fancies,  known  to  few  others  save  himself,  that 
now  they  had  been  intruded  on  even  by  the  voice  of  gratula- 
tion,  they  would  no  longer  throng  around.  It  was  strangn 
that  on  this  night,  when  his  choice  had  been  so  warmly  ap- 
proved of  by  all  his  friends,  when  words  of  such  heartfelt 
kindness  had  been  lavished  in  his  ear,  that  the  same  dull 
foreboding  of  future  evil,  of  suffering,  of  death,  pressed  heavily 
on  him,  as  in  earlier  years '  it  had  been  so  wont  to  do.  He 
struggled  against  it;  he  would  not  listen  to  its  voice,  but  it 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  371 

would  have  sway.  Defined  it  was  not  indeed,  but  fiom  its 
mystery  more  saddening.  Herbert  wrestled  with  himself  in 
fervent  prayer ;  that  night  was  to  him  almost  as  sleepless 
as  it  was  to  his  cousin  Ellen,  but  the  cause  of  her  weary 
watching  was,  alas !  too  well  defined.  The  bright  sun,  the 
joyous  voices  of  his  brother  and  cousin  beneath  his  window, 
roused  Herbert  from  these  thoughts,  and  ere  the  day  had 
passel,  he  had  partly  recovered  the  usual  tenor  of  his  mind, 
though  its  buoyancy  was  still  subdued,  and  its  secret  tem- 
perament somewhat  sad,  but  to  his  family  he  seemed  as 
usual 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

SOME  weeks  passed,  and  Emeline's  health  was  rapidly  return- 
ing ;  her  spirits  were  more  like  those  of  her  girlhood,  subdued 
indeed  by  past  suffering,  but  only  so  far  subdued  as  to  render 
her,  if  possible,  still  dearer  to  all  those  who  loved  her;  and 
she,  too.  beheld  with  delight  the  color  returning  to  her  Arthur's 
cheek,  his  step  regaining  its  elasticity ;  and  there  was  a  manly 
dignity  about  him  now  which,  when  she  first  loved,  she  had  not 
seen,  but  which  she  felt  rendered  him  still  dearer,  for  she  could 
look  up  to  him  for  support,  she  could  feel  dependence  on  his 
stronger  and  more  decisive  character. 

Each  week  confirmed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  in  the  vis 
dom  of  their  decision,  by  revealing  more  clearly  Myrvin's  cha- 
racter. He  was  more  devoted  to  the  duties  of  his  clerical 
profession  ;  pride,  haughtiness,  that  dislike  to  mingle  with  his 
parish  oners,  had  all  departed,  and  as  they  observed  how 
wa,  mlj  and  delightedly  their  Emmcline  entered  into  his  many 
plans  for  do'ng  good,  for  increasing  the  happiness  of  the  vil- 
lagers under  his  spiritual  charge,  they  felt  that  her  domestic 
virtues,  her  gentle  disposition,  were  far  more  suited  to  the  wife 
of  a  clergyman,  than  to  that  life  of  bustling  gayety  which  might 
perhaps,  under  other  circumstances,  have  been  her  portion. 

"Are  there  not  responsibilities  attached  to  a  clergyman's 
wife?"  shs  once  asked  her  mother.  "  I  feel  as  if  so  much  de- 
ponded  upon  me  to  render  him  respected  and  beloved,  that  I 
sometimes  fear  I  may  fail  in  my  duty,  and,  through  ignorance, 
cot  intentional,  perhaps  bring  discredit  on  his  name.  Dearest 
mother,  how  can  I  prevent  this?'' 

'•  These  fears  are  natural  to  one  of  your  character,  my 
Kmmeliue,  but  they  will  quickly  pass  away.  You  would  be 


372  THE  MOTHER'S 

more  likely  to  fail  in  the  duties  of  fashionable  life,  than  i<j 
those  which  you  will  soon  have  to  fulfil.  Occupations  which 
had  you  been  more  fashionably  educated,  must  have  been  irk 
some,  will  to  you  remain  the  pleasures  they  have  ever  been, 
heightened  and  encouraged  by  the  sympathy  of  your  husband. 
A  wife,  to  be  truly  happy  and  virtuous,  must  entirely  forget 
fetf ' ;  a  truth  which  the  partner  of  a  country  clergyman  should 
ever  remember,  as  his  family  is  larger,  more  constant  in  their 
calls  upon  her  attention  and  sympathy,  and  sometimes  her  ex- 
ertions are  less  productive  of  satisfaction  and  pleasure,  than 
those  of  many  other  stations  in  life.  Her  own  demeanor 
should  be  alike  gentle,  unassuming,  persuasive,  yet  dignified, 
so  that  her  actions  may  assist  and  uphold  her  husband  s  doc- 
trines more  thnn  her  language.  You  have  but  to  follow  the 
principles  of  Christianity  and  the  dictates  of  your  own  heart, 
my  Emmeline,  and  your  duty  will  be  done,  almost  unconsciously 
to  yourself." 

The  only  drawback  to  Emmeline's  happiness  was,  that  Lord 
and  Lady  St.  Eval  were  obliged  to  leave  England  ere  her  mar- 
riage could  be  solemnized,  the  health  of  the  latter  prohibiting 
further  delay.  They  did  not  expect  to  be  absent  much  more 
than  a  twelvemonth,  and  the  Earl,  laughingly,  told  Emmeline, 
if  she  would  defer  her  wedding  till  then,  he  would  promise  to 
be  present ;  to  that,  however,  none  of  the  parties  concerned 
seemed  inclined  to  consent,  and  St.  Eval  owned  he  would  much 
rather,  on  his  return,  see  her  comfortably  settled  at  the  Vicar- 
age, where  preparations  were  rapidly  advancing.  Percy,  how- 
ever, promised  to  defer  his  intended  tour  till  his  favorite  sister 
should  be  Myrvin's  bride,  and  Edward,  on  leaving  to  join  his 
ship,  declared,  if  wind  and  tide  were  not  very  contrary,  he,  too, 
•would  take  a  run  down  and  dance  at  her  wedding. 

A  short  time  after  the  departure  of  the  Earl  and  Coun- 
tess, and  Edward,  Ellen  received  from  the  hand  of  her  cousin 
Herbert  a  letter,  which  for  the  moment  caused  her  some  emo- 
tion. She  felt  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  a  peculiar 
expression,  and  shrinking  from  them,  she  was  hastening  to  her 
own  room  to  answer  the  letter  there,  when  Herbert  called  after 
her, — 

"  Do  not  run  away  from  me,  Nelly  ;  whatever  be  your  an- 
gwer.  I  am  to  be  the  bearer." 

Returning  instantly,  she  asked,  with  cheek  suddenly  paled 
and  lip  compressed.  "Are  you  then  aware  of  the  contents  o? 
this  letter,  Herbert?  are  you  in  Captain  Cameron's  confi 
dsnce  ?" 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE,  373 

"  To  both  demands  I  am  happy  enough  to  answer  yea, 
Ellen,"  he  replied,  smiling  archly.  "  Captain  Cameron  hag 
made  me  his  father  confessor,  and  in  return,  I  have  promised 
to  use  all  my  influence  in  his  favor,  to  tell  you  what  his  letter 
may  perhaps  have  but  incoherently  expressed :  that  he  lovca 
you.  Ellen,  devotedly,  faithfully ;  that  he  feels  life  without  you, 
however  brilliant  in  appearance,  will  be  a  blank.  I  promised 
him  I  would  play  the  lover  well,  and  indeed,  my  dear  cousin, 
his  affection  and  esteem  for  you  do  not  admit  a  single  doubt " 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  Ellen,  calmly, "  very  sorry,  as  it  is 
not  in  my  power  to  return  those  feelings,  and  consequently  I 
am  compelled  to  give  him  pain.  I  am  grateful,  very  grateful 
for  the  high  opinion,  the  kind  feelings,  his  letter  expresses  to- 
wards me.  1  shall  never  cease  to  respect  and  value  him  as  a 
friend,  but  more  I  cannot  give."  m 

':  Nay,  Ellen,  take  time  to  consider  of  his  offer;  do  not  re- 
fuse him  at  once  thus  decidedly.  You  say  you  respect  him. 
I  know  you  admire  his  conduct,  both  as  a  son  and  brother, 
and  as  a  man,  What  objections  are  there  so  great  as  to  call 
for  this  decided  and  instant  refusal?" 

"  Simply  because,  as  a  husband,  I  can  never  love  him." 

"  Never  is  a  long  day,  Ellen.  You  surely  have  not  so 
much  romance  in  your  composition  as  to  refuse  a  young  man 
possessing  every  virtue  which  can  make  a  woman  happy,  merely 
because  he  does  not  excite  any  very  violent  passion  ?  Do  you 
not  know  there  are  some  dispositions  which  never  love  to  the 
full  extent  of  the  word,  and  yet  are  perhaps  happier  in  the 
marriage  state  than  those  who  do?  Now  you  may  be  one  of 
these,  Ellen." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  she  said,  still  calmly,  though  a  deep  flush 
stained  her  cheek.  Herbert  had  spoken  playfully,  but  there 
was  that  in  his  words  which,  to  a  heart  seared  as  was  hers,  was 
productive  of  intense  suffering. 

•'  It  may  be  so,  perhaps  ;  I  shall  never  meet  one  to  love, 
as  I  believe  a  hvsband  ought  to  be  loved,  yet  that  would  not 
satisfy  my  conscience  for  accepting  Walter.  I  trust  I  am  not 
romantic,  Herbert,  but  I  will  say,  that  the  vow  to  love,  honor, 
and  obey,  to  think  only  of  him,  demands  something  more 
than  the  mere  cold  esteem  which  some  may  deem  sufficient  for 
happiness.  Walter  is  an  estimable  young  man,  one  who  will 
make  any  woman  happy,  and  deeply  indeed  I  regret  that  he 
has  chosen  one  who  can  only  return  his  warm  devoted  affection 
with  the  comparatively  chilling  sentiments  of  friendship  and 


874  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

esteem.     I  would  not  do  his  kind  heart  so  much  wrong  as  t« 
accept  him." 

"  But  take  time,  Ellen,  give  him  some  hope.  You  can 
urge  no  objections  against  him,  and  his  family  are  dear  to  you. 
He  has  told  me  that  from  his  childhood  he  loved  you,  that 
your  remembrance  never  left  him,  and  when  again  lie  met  you, 
his  fanciful  visions  became  a  beautiful  and  palpable  reality  ; 
give  him,  at  least,  some  time  for  hope.  It  is  impossible,  with 
a  heart  disengaged  as  yours,  to  associate  intimately  with  him 
and  not  love  him." 

"  A  heart  disengaged  as  mine!  how  know  you  that,  Her- 
bert?" said  his  cousin,  with  a  smile,  which  would  have  de- 
ceived the  most  penetrating  eye.  "Are  you  not  presuming 
too  far  in  your  inspection  of  my  heart,  seeking,  in  rather  a 
j^mndabout  way,  to  obtain  my  entire  confidence  ?" 

{:  No,  dearest  Ellen,  I  speak  and  feel  in  this  business,  but 
as  Edward  would  were  he  in  my  place  ;  your  happiness  is  as 
dear  to  me  as  it  is  to  him.  We  have  for  very  many  years  been 
to  each  other  as  a  brother  and  sister,  and,  believe  me,  in  urg- 
ing your  acceptance  of  this  good  young  man,  I  seek  but  your 
welfare  alone." 

"  I  believe  you,  my  dear  cousin."  replied  Ellen,  frankly 
holding  out  her  hand,  which  Herbert  warmly  pressed.  "  But 
indeed,  in  this  instance,  you  are  deceived.  An  union  with 
Walter  Cameron  would  not  form  my  happiness,  worthy  as  he 
'is — suitable  as  the  world  would  deem  such  a  match  in  all  re- 
spects; and  sorry  as  I  am  to  inflict  pain  and  disappointmcrt 
on  the  companion  of  my  childhood,  as  also.  I  fear,  on  his  kind 
Bother,  I  cannot  be  his  wife." 

'•  And  if  your  affections  be  already  engaged,  far  be  it  from 
me  to  urge  you  farther ;  but" — 

"  I  said  not  that  they  were,  Herbert,"  interrupted  Ellen, 
Steadily  fixing,  as  she  spoke,  her  large  eyes  unshrinkingly  on 
her  cousin's  face.  Herbert  felt  fairly  puzzled,  he  could  not 
read  her  heart ;  he  would  have  asked  her  confidence,  he  would 
have  promised  to  do  all  in  his  power  to  forward  her  happiness. 
but  there  was  something  around  her  that,  wliile  it  called  forth 
his  almost  unconscious  respect,  entirely  checked  all  farther 
question.  He  did  not  fancy  that  she  loved  another,  and  yet 
why  this  determined  rejection  of  a  young  man  whom  he  knew 
Bhc  esteemed? 

"  I  am  only  grieving  you  by  continuing  the  subject,"  he 
gaid ;  '•  and  therefore  grant  me  your  forgiveness,  dearest  Ellen, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  375 

and  your  final  answer  to  Cameron,  and  it  shall  be  resumed  no 
more." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  Herbert,"  replied  Ellen,  some- 
what mournfully. 

She  sat  a  few  minutes  longer,  in  saddened  thought,  gazing 
on  the  open  fetter,  and  then  quitted  the  room  and  sought  her 
own.  She  softly  closed  the  door,  secured  it,  and  then  sinking 
on  a  low  seat  beside  her  couch,  buried  her  pale  face  in  her 
hands,  and  for  a  few  minutes  remained  overwhelmed  by  that 
intensity  of  secret  and  tearless  suffering.  It  was  called  forth 
afresh  by  this  interview  with  her  cousin :  to  hear  his  lips  plead 
thus  eloquently  the  cause  of  another ;  to  hear  him  say  that 
perhaps  she  was  one  of  those  who  would  never  love  to  its  full 
extent.  When  her  young  heart  felt  bursting  beneath  the  load 
of  deep  affection  pressing  there,  one  sweet  alone  mingled  in 
that  cup  of  bitterness,  Herbert  guessed  not,  suspected  not  the 
truth.  She  had  succeeded  well  in  concealing  the  anguish  called 
forth  by  unrequited  love,  and  she  would  struggle  on. 

''•  Never,  never  shall  it  be  known  that  I  have  given  this  re- 
bellious heart  to  one  who  seeks  it  not.  No,  no,  that  tale  shall 
live  and  die  with  me  ;  no  one  shall  know  how  low  I  have  fallen. 
Poor  Walter !  he  will  think  I  cannot  feel  for  his  unreturned 
affection,  when  I  know  too  well  its  pang;  and  why  should  I 
not  be  happy  with  him,  why  live  on  in  lingering  wretchedness, 
when,  perhaps  as  a  wife,  new  duties  might  rouse  me  from  tln^ 
lethargy  ?  Away  from  Herbert  I  might  forgrt — be  recon- 
ciled (  but  swear  to  love  Walter  when  I  have  no  love  to  give — 
return  his  affection  by  indifference — oh,  no,  no,  I  will  not  be 
30  guilty." 

Ellen  again  hid  her  eyes  in  her  hands,  and  thought  long 
and  painfully.  Pride  urged  her  to  accept  young  Cameron,  but 
every  better  feeling  revolted  from  it.  She  started  from  that 
posture  of  despondency,  and,  with  a  bursting  heart,  answered 
Walter's  eloquent  appeal.  Kindness  breathed  in  every  lino 
she  wrote — regard  for  his  welfare — esteem  for  his  character; 
but  she  calmly  yet  decidedly  rejected  his  addresses.  She  waa 
grieved,  she  said,  most  deeply  grieved  that  any  thing  in  her 
manner  towards  him  had  encouraged  his  hopes.  She  had  acted 
but  as  she  felt,  looking  on  the  companion  of  her  early  child- 
hood, the  son  of  her  father's  and  her  own  kind  friend,  as  a 
brother  and  a  friend,  in  which  light  she  hoped  he  would  ever 
permit  her  to  regard  him.  Hope  found  no  resting-place  in  her 
letter,  but  it  breathed  such  true  and  gentle  sympathy  and  kind- 


376  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

ness,  that  Walter  could  not  but  feel  soothed,  even  in  the  midsl 
of  disappointment.  Ellen  paused  ere  she  sealed  her  letter ; 
she  could  not  bear  to  act,  even  in  this  matter,  without  confid 
ing  in  her  aunt;  that  Captain  Cameron  had  proposed  and  been 
rejected,  she  felt  assured,  report  would  soon  convey  to  her  ears. 
Why  not  then  seek  her  herself?  The  task  of  writing  had 
calmed  her  heart.  Taking,  therefore,  Walter's  letter  and  her 
own,  she  repaired  to  her  aunt's  dressing-room,  and  fortunately 
found  her  alone.  Mrs.  Hamilton  looked  earnestly  at  her  as 
she  entered,  but  she  made  no  observation  till,  in  compliance 
with  Ellen's  request,  she  perused  the  letters  offered  to  her. 

"  Have  you  reflected  sufficiently  on  your  decision,  my 
Ellen  ?"  she  said,  after  thanking  her  for  the  confidence  she 
reposed  in  her.  Have  you  thought  well  on  the  estimable  cha- 
racter of  this  young  man  ?  Far  be  it  from  me  to  urge  or  per- 
suade you  in  such  an  important  matter  as  marriage,  but  you 
have  not,  I  trust,  answered  this  letter  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment?" 

"  No,  aunt,  I  have  not  indeed.  Herbert  has  been  most 
earnestly  pleading  Captain  Cameron's  cause,  and  I  have 
thought  on  all  he  has  said,  and  the  little  I  can  bring  forward 
to  combat  it,  but  still  I  have  refused  him.  because  as  a  husband 
I  can  never  love  him.  I  honor  all  his  good  qualities.  I  can- 
not remember  one  fault  or  failing  in  his  character,  which  might 
render  a  wife  unhappy.  I  grieve  for  his  disappointment,  but 
I  should  not  think  I  was  doing  either  him  or  myself  justice,  to 
accept  him  merely  on  these  considerations.  Herbert,  I  know, 
considers  me  romantic,  and  perhaps  unkind  towards  his  friend  ; 
but  painful  an  such  an  idea  is,  I  cannot  act  otherwise  than  I 
have  done. J 

"  Do  not  let  that  idea,  then,  continue  to  give  you  pain,  my 
dear  girl ;  your  manner  towards  Walter  has  never  expressed 
more  than  kindness  and  friendly  regard.  If  I  had  seen  any 
thing  like  encouragement  to  him  on  your  part,  do  you  not  think 
I  should  have  called  you  to  account  long  ago?"  she  added, 
with  a  smile,  as  Ellen,  much  relieved,  kissed  her  in  silence. 
fc  Our  young  folks  have,  I  know  sometimes  in  sport,  allied  your 
name  with  his,  but  I  have  generally  checked  them.  Walter  I 
certainly  did  fancy  admired  you,  but  I  did  not  imagine  the 
feeling  so  decided  as  it  has  proved.  I  will  not  blame  your  de- 
cision, though  perhaps  it  may  not  be  a  very  wise  one.  Mar- 
riage is  too  serious  a  thing  to  be  entered  upon  lightly,  and  if 
you  cannot  love  Walter  as  a  husband,  why  you  are  quite  right 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  377 

not  to  accept  him.  I  am  not  so  eager  to  part  with  my  Ellen 
as  to  advise  her  marrying,  whether  she  likes  it  or  not.  I  shall 
soon  have  only  you  to  cheer  my  old  age.  you  know.  Do  not 
look  so  pained  and  sad,  love ;  it  is  not  thus  young  ladies  in 
general  refuse  an  offer.  Go  and  give  your  letter  to  Herbert, 
tell  him  it  has  my  unqualified  approval,  and  then  return  to  me. 
I  marked  some  beautiful  passages  in  one  of  our  favorite  authors 
the  other  day,  and  you  shall  read  them  tome.  Now  run  away, 
and  come  back  quickly." 

Ellen  obeyed  gladly  and  gratefully,  and  was  enabled  play- 
fully to  return  the  smile  with  which  Herbert  received  her  let- 
ter and  his  mother's  message.  Mrs.  Hamilton  felt  more  and 
more  convinced  that  her  suspicions  were  correct,  and  that  her 
niece's  affections  were  unhappily  engaged.  She  thought  again 
and  again  who  could  be  their  object,  and  still  she  fancied  it 
was  Arthur  Myrvin.  She  scarcely  knew  why  herself,  except 
from  Ellen's  agitation  the  night  of  his  arrival  at  Oakwood,  and 
engagement  with  Emmeline.  That  Herbert  was  the  object, 
was  to  her  so  improbable,  that  the  idea  never  crossed  her  mind. 
They  had  lived  so  long  as  brother  and  sister,  they  had  from 
their  earliest  childhood  so  intimately  associated  with  each 
other,  Ellen  and  Edward  were  to  her  so  like  her  own  children, 
that  not  once  did  she  imagine  Ellen  loved  her  cousin.  She 
watched  her  closely,  and  she  was  more  and  more  convinced 
that  she  had  something  to  conceal.  She  was  certain  her  de- 
cided rejection  of  Walter  proceeded  from  her  affections  being 
already  engaged,  which  had  also  blinded  her  to  his  attentions  j 
and  she  was  convinced  also  that  Ellen  loved  in  vain,  and  there- 
fore, thougji  she  longed  to  console  and  soothe  her,  she  resolved 
not  to  speak  to  her  on  the  subject,  and  wring  fiom  her  a  secret 
which,  when  once  betrayed,  though  revealed  to  her  alone,  might 
be  still  more  painful  to  endure.  Mrs.  Hamilton's  manner  was 
so  kind,  so  soothing,  so  calculated  to  support  and  strengthen, 
that  Ellen  more  than  once  wondered  whether  her  aunt  had 
indeed  discovered  her  secret ;  but  she  could  not  speak  of  it. 
She  could  not  even  to  the  being  she  loved  best  on  earth,  with 
the  exception  of  one,  thus  lay  bare  her  aching  heart.  Often 
and  often  she  longed  to  throw  herself  in  the  arms  of  her  aunt 
and  weep,  but  she  controlled  the  impulse,  and  bore  on  in  silence 
and  outward  cheerfulness ;  strengthened  in  her  efforts  by  tho 
conviction  that  Herbert  knew  not.  imagined  not  the  truth. 

Young  Cameron  was  grieved  and  disappointed,  for  his  love 
for  Ellen  was  indeed  sincere,  but  he  could  not  mistake  her  let- 


378  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE 

ter ;  he  saw  there  was  no  hope,  her  expressions  of  friendship 
and  kindness  were  soothing  and  gratifying,  they  prevented  all 
bitterness  of  feeling,  and  he  determined  to  preserve  the  friend- 
ship and  brotherly  regard  which  she  so  frankly  proffered. 

Mrs.  Cameron  was  at  first  somewhat  hurt  at  Ellen's  decided 
rejection  of  her  son.  but  she  could  not  long  retain  any  emotion 
of  coolness  towards  her.  she  could  not  resist  the  affectionate 
manner  of  Ellen,  and  all  was  soon  as  usual  between  them.  A 
visit  with  Percy  to  Castle  Marvern,  at  Lord  Louis's  earnest 
entreaty,  to  Walter  was  an  agreeable  change,  though  it  had  at 
first  been  a  struggle  to  rouse  himself  sufficiently.  There  the 
character  and  conversation  of  Lady  Florence  Lyle.  to  his  ex- 
cited fancy,  so  much  resembled  Ellen's,  that  unconsciously  he 
felt  soothed  and  happy.  From  Castle  Malvern.  he  joined  his 
regiment  with  Lord  Louis,  who  had  received  a  commission  in 
the  same  troop,  and  by  the  time  Captain  Cameron  returned  to 
Oakwood.  he  could  associate  with  Ellen  as  a  friend  and  a 
brother.  Above  a  year,  it  is  true,  elapsed  before  that  time, 
and  in  that  period  events  had  occurred  at  Oakwood.  as  unex- 
pected as  they  were  mournful — but  we  will  not  anticipate. 

Soon  after  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Eval's  departure  for  Italy, 
Mr.  Grahame,  despite  the  entreaties  of  his  friends,  even  the 
silent  eloquence  of  Lilla's  appealing  eyes,  put  his  resolution 
into  force,  and  retired  to  Wales.  He  had  paid  to  the  last 
farthing  all  his  misguided  son's  honorable  and  dishonorable 
debts ;  and  this  proceeding,  as  might  be  expected,  left  him  so 
reduced  in  fortune  as  to  demand  the  greatest  economy  to  live 
Mith  any  comfort.  To  such  an  evil  Grahame  seemed  insenbi- 
ble ;  his  only  wish  was  to  escape  from  the  eye  and  tongue  of 
the  world.  A  mistaken  view  with  regard  to  his  Cuild  also 
urged  him  on.  Why  should  he  expose  her  to  the  attentions  of 
the  young  noblemen  so  constantly  visiting  at  Mr.  Hamilton's 
house,  when,  he  felt  assured,  however  eaecrly  his  alliance 
would  once  have  been  courted,  now  not  one  would  unite  him- 
self to  the  sister  of  a  publicly  disgraced  and  privately  dishonored 
man?  No,  it  was  better  for  her  to  be  far  away  :  and  though 
her  mild  submission  to  his  wishes,  notwithstanding  the  pain 
he  knew  it  was  to  part  from  her  friends  at  Oakwo^d,  rendered 
her  dearer  to  him  than  ever,  still  he  wavered  not  in  his  resolu- 
tion. The  entreaties  of  Arthur  Myrvin,  Emmeline.  and  Ellen 
did,  however,  succeed  in  persuading  him  to  fix  his  place  of  re- 
tirement at  Llangwillan,  so  that  all  connection  would  not  be  so 
Completely  broken  between  them,  as  were  he  to  seek  somo 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  370 

more  distant  part  of  the  country.  Llangwillan,  Arthur  urged 
was  scarcely  known  to  the  world  at  large,  but  it  was  to  them, 
and  they  might  hope  sometimes  to  see  them ;  for  he,  Ennne- 
line.  and  Ellen  would  often  visit  his  father.  Grahame  con- 
sented, to  the  great  joy  of  his  child,  who  felt  more  than  himself 
the  force  of  Myrvin's  arguments. 

"Mr.  Myrvin  is  such  a  dear,  good,  old  man,  you  cannot 
fail  to  love  him,  Lilla,"  Ellen  said,  soothingly,  as  the  day  of 
parting  neared.  "  You  must  ask  him  to  show  you  the  little 
cottage  where  the  first  eight  weeks  of  my  residence  in  England 
were  passed,  and  make  friends  with  the  old  widow  and  her 
daughter  for  my  sake;  you  will  find  them  willing  enough  to 
talk  about  us  and  my  poor  mother,  if  you  once  speak  on  the 
subject.  And  my  mother's  grave,  dear  Lilla,  you  will  visit 
that  sometimes,  will  you  not?  and  not  permit  a  weed  to  min- 
gle with  the  flowers  Arthur  planted  around  it  after  we  left,  to 
distinguish  it,  he  said,  from  every  other  grave.  It  shall  be 
your  charge,  dearest  Lilla,  and  Edward  and  I  will  thank  you 
for  it ;  he  never  goes  to  Llangwillan  without  passing  an  hour 
of  each  day  by  that  little  humble  mound." 

:'  Edward,  does  he  ever  come  to  Llangwillan  ?"  Lilla  sud- 
denly asked,  her  tears  checked,  and  every  feature  expressive 
of  such  animated  hope,  that  Ellen  looked  at  her  for  a  moment 
in  astonishment,  and  then  smilingly  answered  in  the  affirma- 
tive. Lilla  clasped  her  hands  in  sudden  joy.  and  then,  as  if 
ashamed,  hid  her  face,  burning  with  blushes,  on  Ellen's  hand. 
Her  companion  stooped  down  to  kiss  her  brow,  and  continued 
talking  of  her  brother  for  some  time  longer. 

From  that  day  Ellen  observed  Lilla  regained  her  usual 
animation  her  eye  sparkled,  and  her  cheek  often  flushed,  as 
if  from  some  secret  thought;  her  spirits  only  fell  at  the  hour 
of  parting,  and  Ellen  felt  assured  they  would  quickly  riso 
again,  and  the  first  packet  she  received  from  Llangwillan  con- 
firmed the  supposition.  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  surprised,  but 
Ellen  was  not. 

Preparations  were  now  actively  making  for  Herbert's  visit 
to  France,  thence  to  bring  home  his  betrothed.  His  father 
and  Percy  had  both  resolved  on  accompanying  him.  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton  and  Emmeline  and  Arthur  anxiously  anticipated  the 
return  of  their  long  absent  friends. 

A  longer  time  than  usual  had  elapsed  between  Mary's  let- 
ters, and  Herbert's  anxiety  was  becoming  more  and  more  in- 
tense. Two  or  three  of  his  letters  had  remained  unanswered  j 


380  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

there  were  no  tidings  of  either  herself  or  her  mother.  St 
Eval  had  determined  on  not  visiting  Paris  till  his  return  from 
Switzerland,  as  his  solicitude  to  arrive  at  his  journey's  end, 
and  commence  the  prescribed  remedies  for  Caroline  would,  he 
was  quite  sure,  destroy  all  his  pleasure.  In  vain  his  wife 
laughed  at  his  hurry  and  his  fears ;  much  as  he  wished  to  see 
Mary,  he  was  determined,  and  Caroline  no  farther  opposed 
him.  Through  them,  then,  Herbert  could  receive  no  tidings; 
he  had  not  heard  since  that  event,  which  he  believed  would 
have  been  as  much  joy  to  Mary  as  to  himself — his  ordination. 
He  struggled  with  his  own  anxiety  that  the  intervening  ob- 
stacles to  his  journey  should  not  deprive  him  of  serenity  and 
trust,  but  the  inward  fever  was  ravaging  within.  Only  one 
short  week,  and  then  h«  departed  ;  ere,  however,  that  time 
came  he  received  a  letter,  and  with  a  sickening  feeling  cf  in- 
definable dread  recognized  the  handwriting  of  his  Mary.  He 
left  the  breakfast  parlor  to  peruse  it  alone,  and  it  was  long  be- 
fore he  returned  to  his  family.  They  felt  anxious,  they  knew 
not  why ;  even  Arthur  and  Emmeline  were  silent,  and  the 
ever-restless  Percy  remained  leaning  over  a  newspaper,  as  if 
determined  not  to  move  till  his  brother  returned.  A  similar 
feeling  appeared  to  detain  his  father,  who  did  not.  seek  the  li- 
brary as  usual.  Ellen  appeared  earnestly  engaged  in  some 
communications  from  Lady  Florence  Lyle,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton 
was  perusing  a  letter  from  Caroline,  which  the  same  post  had 
brought. 

With  a  sudden  spring  Percy  started  from  his  seat,  ex- 
claiming, in  a  tone  that  betrayed  unconsciously  much  internal 
anxietv — 

"What  in  the  world  is  Herbert  about?  He  cannot  have 
gone  out  without  bringing  us  some  intelligence.  Robert,  has 
Mr.  Herbert  gone  out?"  he  called  loudly  to  the  sen-ant,  who 
was  passing  the  open  window. 

"  No.  sir,"  was  the  reply ;  "  he  is  still  in  his  room." 

"Then  there  will  I  seek  him,"  he  added,  impetuously;  but 
he  was  prevented  by  the  entrance  of  Herbert  himself,  and 
Percy  started  from  him  in  astonishment  and  alarm. 

There  was  not  a  particle  of  color  on  his  cheek  or  lips ;  his 
eyes  burned  as  with  fever,  and  his  lips  quivered  as  in  some 
unutterable  anguish. 

"  Read,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  hoarse  and  unnatural,  rt 
startled  even  more  than  his  appearance,  and  he  placed  the 
letter  in  his  father's  hand.  "  Father,  read,  and  tell  them  all-- 


THE   MOTHER'S    RECOMPENSE.  381 

I  cannot.  It  is  over  !"  he  continued,  sinking  on  a  stool  at  hia 
mother's  feet,  and  laying  his  aching  head  on  her  lap.  "  My 
beautiful  dream  is  over,  and  what  is  the  waking  ?  wretched- 
ness, unutterable  wretchedness  !  My  God,  my  God,  Thy  hand 
is  heavy  upon  me,  yet  I  would  submit."  He  clasped  his 
mother's  hands  convulsively  in  his.  he  drooped  his  head  upon 
them,  and  his  slight  frame  shook  beneath  the  agony,  which  for 
hours  he  had  been  struggling  to  subdue.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
clasped  him  to  her  bosom ;  she  endeavored  to  speak  words  of 
hope  and  comfort. 

Silence  deep  and  solemn  fell  over  that  little  party;  it  was 
so  fearful  to  see  Herbert  thus — the  gentle,  the  self-controlled, 
the  exalted  Herbert  thus  bowed  down  even  to  the  earth  ;  he, 
whose  mind  ever  seemed  raised  above  this  world  ;  he,  who  to 
his  family  was  ever  a  being  of  a  brighter,  holier  sphere.  If 
he  bent  thus  beneath  the  pressure  of  earthly  sorrow,  what 
must  that  sorrow  be?  His  family  knew  the  depth  of  feeling 
existing  in  his  breast,  which  the  world  around  them  never 
could  suspect,  and  they  looked  on  him  and  trembled.  Myrvin 
raised  him  from  the  arms  of  his  mother,  and  bore  him  to  the 
nearest  couch,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  wiped  from  his  damp  brow 
the  starting  dew.  Tears  of  alarm  and  sympathy  were  stream- 
ing from  the  eyes  of  Emmeline,  and  Myrvin  resigned  his  post 
ID  Percy,  to  comfort  her.  But  Ellen  wept  not ;  pale  as  Her- 
bert, her  features  expressed  suffering  almost  as  keen  as  his, 
and  yet  she  dared  not  do  as  her  heart  desired,  fly  to  his  side 
and  speak  the  words  that  love  dictated.  What  was  her  voice 
t?  him  ?  she  had  no  power  to  soothe, 

Deep  and  varied  emotions  passed  rapidly  over  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton's countenance  as  he  read  the  letter  which  had  caused  this 
misery.  Percy  could  trace  upon  his  features  pity,  sorrow, 
s^orn,  indignation,  almost  loathing,  follow  one  another  rapidlv 
and  powerfully,  and  even  more  violently  did  those  emotions 
agitate  him  when  the  truth  was  known. 

':  It  was  an  old  tale,  and  often  told,  but  that  took  not  from 
its  bitterness."  Mary  wrote,  from  a  bed  of  suffering  such  as  she 
had  never  before  endured :  for  weeks  she  had  been  insensible 
to  thought  or  action,  but  she  had  resolved  no  one  but  herself 
should  inform  her  Herbert  of  all  that  had  transpired,  no  hand 
but  her  own  should  trace  her  despairing  words.  They  had 
lived,  as  we  know,  calmly  at  Paris,  so  peaceably,  that  Mrs. 
Greville  had  indulged  in  brighter  hopes  for  the  future  than 
bad  ever  before  engrossed  her.  Mr.  Greville  spent  much  of 


382  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

his  time  from  home,  accompanying,  howeve/ ,  his  •wife  and 
daughter  to  their  evening  amusements,  and  f»  .ways  remained 
present  when  they  received  company  in  retum.  They  lived 
in  a  style  of  more  lavish  expenditure  than  Mis.  Grevillc  at  all 
approved  of.  Her  husband,  however,  only  laughed  good- 
humoredly  whenever  she  ventuied  to  remonstrate,  and  told 
her  not  to  trouble  herself  or  Mary  about  such  things  ;  they  had 
enough,  and  he  would  take  care  that  sufficiency  should  not 
fail.  A  dim  foreboding  crossed  Mrs.  Greville's  mind  at  theso 
words ;  but  her  husband's  manner,  though  careless,  preventing 
all  further  expostulation,  she  was  compelled  to  suppress,  if  she 
could  not  conquer,  her  anxiety.  At  length,  the  storm  that 
Mary  had  long  felt  was  brooding  in  this  unnatural  calm,  burst 
over  her,  and  opened  Mrs.  Greville's  eyes  at  once. 

Among  their  most  constant  but  least  welcome  visitors  was 
a  Monsieur  Dupont,  a  man  of  polished  manners  certainly,  the 
superficial  polish  of  the  Frenchman,  but  of  no  other  attraction, 
and  even  in  that  there  was  something  about  him  to  Mary  par- 
ticularly repulsive.  He  had  seen  some  threescore  years ;  his 
countenance,  in  general  inexpressive,  at  times  betrayed  that 
strong  and  evil  passions  were  working  at  his  heart.  He  was 
said  to  be  very  rich,  though  some  reports  had  gone  about  that 
his  fortune  had  all  been  amassed  by  gambling  in  no  very  honor- 
able manner.  With  this  man  Mr.  Greville  was  continually 
associated ;  they  were  seldom  seen  apart,  and  being  thus  the 
favorite  of  the  master,  he  was  constantly  at  the  house.  To 
Mrs.  'Greville  as  to  Mary  he  was  an  object  of  indefinable  yet 
strong  aversion,  and  willingly  would  they  have  always  denied 
themselves,  and  thus  escaped  his  odious  presence.  Once  they 
had  done  so.  but  the  storm  of  fury  that  burst  from  Mr.  Gre- 
ville intimidated  both ;  they  felt  some  little  concession  on  their 
parts  was  demanded  to  preserve  peace,  and  Monsieur  Dupont 
continued  his  vis:ts. 

To  this  man,  publicly  known  as  unprincipled,  selfish,  in- 
capable of  one  exalted  or  generous  feeling,  Greville  had  sworn 
to  give  his  gentle  and  unoffending  child  ;  this  man  he  sternly 
commanded  Mary  to  receive  as  her  husband,  and  prepare  her- 
self for  her  marriage  within  a  month. 

As  if  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen,  Mary  and  her  mother  lis- 
tened to  these  terrible  words,  and  scarcely  had  the  latter  suffi- 
cient courage  to  inform  her  unpitying  husband  of  their  child's 
engagement  with  Herbert  Hamilton.  For  Mary's  sake  sho 
Struggled  and  spoke,  but  her  fears  were  not  without  foundatioa 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  3  S3 

A  horrid  imprecation  on  Mr.  Hamilton  and  his  family  burst 
instantly  from  the  lips  of  the  now  infuriated  Greville  ;  he  had 
chosen  for  many  years  to  fancy  himself  deeply  injured  by  that 
gentleman,  and.  with  an  oath  too  fearful  to  be  written,  he  so- 
lemnly swore  that  Mary  should  never  be  the  wife  of  Herbert : 
he  would  rather  see  her  dead.  Louder  and  louder  grew  his 
passion,  but  Mrs.  Greville  heard  him  not.  Mary  had  dropped 
as  if  lifeless  at  his  feet.  She  had  sprung  up  as  if  to  arrest  the' 
imprecation  on  her  father's  lips,  but  when  his  dreadful  oath 
reached  her  ears,  her  senses  happily  forsook  her.  and  it  was 
long,  very  long  before  she  woke  to  consciousness  and  thought. 
Mrs.  Greville  hung  in  agony  over  the  couch  of  her  unhappy 
child;  scarcely  could  she  pray  or  wish  for  her  recovery,  for  she 
knew  there  was  no  hope.  Her  husband  had  let  fall  hints  of 
being  so  deeply  pledged  to  Dupont,  that  his  liberty  or  perhaps 
his  life  depended  on  his  union  with  Mary,  and  could  she  wish 
her  child  to  live  to  be  the  wife  of  such  a  man,  yet  could  she 
see  her  die  ?  What  pen  can  describe  the  anguish  of  that  fond 
mother,  as  for  weeks  she  watched  and  tended  her  senseless 
child,  or  the  contending  feelings  that  wrung  her  heart  when 
Mary  awoke  again  to  consciousness  and  misery,  and  asked  her 
in  a  voice  almost  inarticulate  from  weakness,  what  had  hap- 
pened— why  she  was  thus  ?  Truth  gradually  broke  upon  her 
mind,  and  Mary  too  soon  remembered  all.  The  physician  said 
she  was  recovering,  that  she  would  quickly  be  enabled  to  leave 
her  bed  and  go  about  as  usual.  Greville  swore  he  would  no 
longer  be  prevented  seeing  her,  and  Mary  made  no  opposition 
to  his  entrance.  Calmly  and  passively  she  heard  all  he  had  to 
say;  what  he  told  her  then  she  did  not  repeat  in  writing  to 
Herbert.  She  merely  said  that  she  had  implored  him  to  wait 
till  her  health  was  a  little  more  restored  ;  not  to  force  her  to 
become  the  wife  of  Dupont.  till  she  could  stand  ivithout  sup- 
port beside  the  altar,  and  he  had  consented. 

'•'  Be  comforted,  then,  my  beloved  Herbert,"  she  wrote,  as 
she  concluded  this  bric^  tale  of  suffering.  "  They  buoy  me  up 
with  hopes  that  in  a  very  few  months  I  shall  be  as  well  as  ever 
I  was.  I  smile,  for  I  know  the  blight  has  fallen,  and  I  shall 
never  stand  beside  an  earthly  altar ;  all  I  pray  is.  that  death 
may  not  linger  till  my  father's  patience  be  exhausted,  and  he 
vent  on  my  poor  mother  all  the  reproaches  which  my  lingering 
illness  will,  I  know,  call  forth.  Oh,  my  beloved  Herbert,  there 
are  moments  when  I  think  the  bitterness  of  death  is  passed, 
when  I  am  so  calm,  so  happy,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  already  reached 


884  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

the  confines  of  my  blissful,  my  eternal  home ;  but  this  is  not 
always  granted  me.  There  are  times  when  I  can  think  only 
on  the  happiness  I  had  once  hoped  to  share  with  you.  when 
heaven  itself  seemed  dimmed  by  the  blessedness  I  had  antici- 
pated on  earth.  Herbert,  I  shall  never  be  another's  wife,  and 
it  will  not  be  misery  to  think  of  me  in  heaven.  Oh,  no,  we 
shall  meet  there  soon,  very  soon,  never,  never  more  to  part. 
Why  does  my  pen  linger  ?  Alas !  it  cannot  trace  the  word 
farewell.  Yet  why  does  it  so  weakly  shrink  ?  'tis  but  for  a 
brief  space,  and  we  shall  meet  where  that  word  is  never  heard, 
where  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  be  no  more.  Farewell,  then, 
my  beloved  Herbert,  beloved  faithfully,  unchangeably  in  death 
as  ynu  have  been  in  life.  I  know  my  last  prayer  to  you  is 
granted  ere  even  it  is  spoken :  you  will  protect  and  think  of 
my  poor  mother';  you  will  not  permit  her  to  droop  and  die  of 
a  broken  heart,  with  no  kind  voice  to  soothe  and  cheer.  I  feel 
she  will  in  time  be  happy;  and  oh,  the  unutterable  comfort  of 
that  confiding  trust.  Once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  fare- 
well, my  beloved ;  think  only  that  your  Mary  is  in  heaven, 
that,  her  spirit,  redeemed  and  blessed,  waits  for  thee  near  the 
Saviour's  throne,  and  be  comforted.  We  shall  meet  again." 

No  sound  broke  the  stillness  when  that  sad  letter  had  been 
perused.  •  Mr.  Hamilton  had  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands, 
for  he  could  not  speak  of  comfort ;  the  long  years  of  domestic 
bliss  which  had  been  his  portion,  made  him  feel  bitterly  the 
trial  which  the  heart  of  his  son  was  doomed  to  endure.  And 
how  was  he  to  aid  ?  Could  he  seek  Greville,  and  condescend 
to  use  persuasions,  arguments  to  force  from  him  his  consent? 
With  clenched  hand  and  knitted  brow  Percy  stood,  his 
thoughts  forcibly  drawn  from  the  sufferers  by  the  bitter  indig- 
nation he  felt  towards  the  heartless,  cruel  man  who  had  occa- 
sioned all.  Mrs.  Hamilton  could  think  only  of  her  son,  of 
Mary,  whom  she  had  so  long  loved  as  her  own  child,  and  the 
longing  to  behold  her  once  again,  to  speak  the  words  of  sooth- 
ing and  of  love,  with  which  her  heart  felt  bursting.  Emme- 
line  could  only  weep,  that  such  should  be  the  fate  of  one  whom 
from  her  childhood  she  had  loved,  and  whom  she  had  lately  an- 
ticipated with  so  much  delight  receiving  as  a  sister.  For 
some  minutes  Ellen  sat  in  deep  and  painful  thought,  then 
starting  up.  she  flew  to  the  side  of  her  uncle,  and  clasping  his 
hand,  entreated — 

'•  Go  to  Paris,  my  dear  uncle — go  yourself,  and  see  this  ro 
leutless  man ;  speak  with  him,  know  why  he  has  commanded 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  385 

Mary  to  receive  this  Dupont  as  her  husband  ;  perhaps  you  may 
render  Herbert's  claims  as  valuable  in  his  eyes.  He  has  no 
cause  of  strife  with  you;  he  will  hear  you.  I  know  he  will, 
his  fury  was  called  forth  because  he  thought  Herbert  stood  in 
the  way  of  his  wishes.  Prove  to  him  the  happiness,  the  life  of 
his  child,  of  yours,  depend  on  their  union.  He  cannot,  he  will 
not  refuse  to  hear  you.  Oh,  do  not  hesitate,  go  to  him,  my 
dear  uncle ;  all  may  not  be  so  desperate  as  at  this  distance  we 
may  fancy." 

••  My  father  may  as  well  plead  to  the  hard  flint  as  to  Alfred 
Greville's  feelings,"  muttered  Percy.  "  Ellen,  you  know  riot 
what  you  ask ;  would  you  have  my  father  debase  himself  to  a 
wretch  like  that?" 

"  'Tis  Mr.  Greville  who  will  be  debased,  and  not  my  itile, 
Percy.  The  world  might  think  him  hunibled  to  plead  to  such 
a  man,  but  they  would  think  falsely ;  he  is  raised  above  the 
cringing  crowd,  who  from  false  pride  would  condemn  the  child 
of  virtue  to  misery  and  death,  because  they  would  not  bear 
with  tlie  vices  of  the  parent.  Were  Mary,  were  Mrs.  Greville 
in  any  point  otherwise  than  they  are,  I  would  not  thus  plead, 
for  there  would  be  no  necessity.  She  could  not  be  so  dear  to 
Herbert.  I  do  not  ask  my  uncle  to  humble  himself;  1  ask 
him  but  to  reason  with  Mr.  Greville  to  convince  him  of  his 
error  " 

••  What  says  my  Herbert  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Hamilton,  gazing 
with  astonishment  on  his  niece's  animated  features,  and  almost 
wondering  at  her  unwonted  eloquence. 

"That  she  has  spoken  well,  and  may  God  in  heaven  bles? 
heT  for  the  thought !"  exclaimed  Herbert,  who  had  roused  him- 
self to  listen  to  her  earnest  words,  and  now,  with  sudden  en- 
ergy sprung  up.  ••  Father,  let  us  go.  Ellen  has  spoken  justly. 
lie  will  listen  to  you.  he  will  not  hear  my  entreaties  unmoved. 
I  have  never  offended  him  ;  he  is,  indeed,  a  harsh  and  cruel 
m,i u.  one  whom  I  would  gladly  shun,  but  the  father  of  Mary. 
Oh.  let  us  seek  him,  for  her  sake  will  we  plead ;  he  will  wako 
from  his  dream,  he  will  know  he  has  been  in  error.  Oh.  mv 
father,  let  us  go.  She  may  yet  be  saved  to  live  and  bless  me." 

lie  sunk  back  on  the  sofa,  and  burst  into  tears.  Hope  had 
suddenly  sprung  up  from  the  dark  void  which  had  been  in  his 
heart.  Mrs.  Hamilton  could  not  check  that  suddenly-excited 
hope,  but  she  did  not  share  it.  for  she  felt  it  came  but  to  de- 
ceive. She  whispered  gentle  and  consoling  words,  she  spoke 
of  comfort  that  she  could  not  feel.  But  «nce  his  energies 
17 


386  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

aroused,  they  did  not  fail  him.  To  go  instantly  to  Paris,  tc 
seek  Mr.  Greville,  and  plead  his  own  cause,  aided  by  his  father's 
influence,  acknowledge  he  had  been  wrong  in  not  asking  hia 
consent  before,  such  thoughts  now  alone  occupied  his  mind, 
and  Mr.  Hamilton  could  not  check  them,  though,  even  as  hia 
wife,  he  shared  not  his  son's  sanguine  expectations.  That  he 
had  once  possessed  more  influence  than  any  one  else  over  Mr. 
Greville  he  well  knew  ;  but  he  thought  with  Percy,  the  dislike 
felt  towards  him  originated  from  this,  and  that  it  was  more 
than  probable  he  would  remain  firm  in  his  refusal  tv.  triumph 
over  both  himself  and  his  son;  yet  he  could  not  hesitate  to 
comply  with  Herbert's  wishes.  Ellen's  suggestion  ha  I  roused 
him  to  exertion,  and  he  should  not  be  permitted  to  sink  back 
into  despondency,  at. least  they  should  meet. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  define  Ellen's  feelings  as  she  beheld 
her  work,  and  marked  the  effect  of  her  words  upon  her  cousin. 
Not  a  particle  of  selfishness  mingled  in  her  feelings,  but  that 
deep  pang  was  yet  unconquered.  Herbert's  manner  to  her 
was  even  kinder,  more  affectionate  than  usual,  during  the  few 
days  that  intervened  ere  they  parted,  as  if  he  felt  that  she  had 
drawn  aside  the  dark  veil  of  impenetrable  gloom,  and  sum- 
moned hope  to  rise  again ;  and  could  she  see  or  feel  this  un- 
moved ?  Still  was  she  calm  and  tranquil,  and  she  would  speak 
of  Mary  and  of  brighter  hopes,  and  no  emotion  was  betrayed  in 
her  pale  cheek  or  in  that  tearless  eye. 

Percy  accompanied  his  father  and  brother.  They  travelled 
rapidly,  and  a  favorable  voyage  enabled  them  to  reach  Paris 
in  a  shorter  time  than  usual.  Mr.  Hamilton  had  insisted  on 
seeking  Mr.  Greville's  mansion  at  first  alone,  and  Percy  con- 
trolled his  own  feelings.  To  calm  the  strong  emotion,  the 
deep  anxiety,  that  now  he  was  indeed  in  the  same  city  as 
his  Mary,  almost  overpowered  Herbert ;  the  struggle  for  com- 
posure, for  resignation  to  whatever  might  be  the  will  of  his 
God,  was  too  powerful  for  his  exhausted  strength.  Sleep 
had  only  visited  him  by  snatches,  short  and  troubled,  since  he 
had  received  Mary's  letter ;  the  long  interval  which  elapsed 
ere  Mr.  Hamilton  returned  was  productive  of  even  keener  suf- 
fering than  he  had  yet  endured.  Hope  had  sunk  powerless  be- 
fore anxiety ;  the  strength  of  mind  which  had  borne  him  up  so 
long  was  giving  way  beneath  the  exhaustion  of  bodily  powers, 
which  Percy  saw  with  alarm  and  sorrow ;  his  eyes  had  lost 
their  lustre,  and  were  becoming  dim  and  haggard  ;  more  than 
once  he  observed  a  slight  shudder  pass  through  his  frame,  and 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  387 

felt  his  words  of  cheering  and  of  comfort  fell  unheeded  on  his 
brother's  ear.  At  length  Mr.  Hamilton  returned. 

"  She  lives,  my  son,"  were  the  first  words  he  uttered,  but 
his  tone  was  not  joyful ;  "  our  beloved  and  gentle  Mary  yet 
lives,  and  soon,  very  soon  you  shall  meet,  not  to  part  on  earth 
again." 

Herbert  gazed  wildly  in  his  face,  he  clasped  his  hands  con- 
vulsively, and  then  he  bowed  his  head  in  a  deep  ami  fervent 
burst  of  thanksgiving. 

"  And  Greville,"  said  Percy,  impatiently,  "  has  he  so  soon 
consented  ?  father,  you  have  not  descended  to  entreaties,  and 
to  such  a  man  ?" 

"  Percy,  peace,"  said  his  father,  gravely.  "  With  Mr.  Gre- 
ville I  have  exchanged  no  words.  Thank  God,  I  sought  not 
his  house  with  any  hostile  intention,  with  any  irritation  urging 
me  against  him.  Percy,  he  is  dead,  and  let  his  faults  die  with 
him" 

"  Dead  !"  repeated  the  young  man,  shocked  and  astonished, 
and  Herbert  started  up.  His  lip  quivered  with  the  vain  effort 
to  ask  an  explanation. 

It  was  even  so  ;  that  very  morning  Greville  had  breathed 
his  last,  with  all  his  sins  upon  his  head,  for  no  time  had  been 
allowed  him  either  for  repentance  or  atonement.  A  few  days 
after  Mary  had  written  to  Herbert,  her  father  had  been  brought 
home  senseless,  and  dreadfully  injured,  by  a  fall  from  his 
horse.  His  constitution,  shattered  by  intemperance  and  con 
tinued  dissipation,  was  not  proof  against  the  fever  that  ensued  t 
delirum  never  left  him.  For  five  days  Mrs.  Greville  and  Mary 
watched  over  his  couch.  His  ravings  were  dreadful :  he  would 
speak  of  Dupont,  at  one  time,  with  imprecations ;  at  others,  as 
if  imploring  him  to  forbear.  He  would  entreat  his  child  to 
forgive  him  ;  and  then,  with  fearful  convulsions,  appear  strug- 
gling with  the  effort  to  drag  her  to  the  altar.  Mary  heard,  and 
her  slight  frame  shook  and  withered  each  day  faster  than  the 
last,  but  she  moved  not  from  her  father's  side.  In  vain  Mrs. 
Greville  watched  for  some  returning  consciousness,  for  some 
sign  to  say  he  died  in  peace.  Alas  !  there  was  none.  He  ex- 
pired in  convulsions ;  and  scarcely  had  his  wife  and  child  reco- 
vered the  awful  scene,  when  the  entrance  of  the  hated  Dupont 
roused  them  to  exertion.  He  came  to  claim  Mary  as  his  pro- 
mised wife,  or  send  them  forth  as  beggars.  The  house  and  all 
that  it  contained,  even  to  their  jewels,  were  his  ;  for  Grevillo 
had  died,  owing  to  him  debts  to  an  amount  which  even  the  sale 


388  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE, 

of  all  they  possessed  could  not  entirely  repay.  He  had  it  in 
his  power  to  arrest  the  burial  of  the  scarcely  cold  corpse,  to 
stain  the  name  of  the  dead  with  undying  infamy  ;  and  he  vowed 
that  he  would  use  his  power  to  its  utmost  extent,  if  Mary's 
consent  were  not  instantly  given.  Four-and-twenty  hours  he 
gave  her  to  decide,  and  departed,  leaving  inexpressible  wretch- 
edness behind  him,  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Greville,  and  the  calm 
etupor  of  exhaustion  and  despair  pervading  Mary's  every 
faculty. 

"  My  child,  my  child,  it  shall  not  be ;  you  shall  not  be  that 
heartless  villain's  wife.  I  have  health  ;  I  can  work,  teach,  do 
any  thing  to  support  us,  and  why,  oh,  why  should  you  be  thus 
sacrificed  ?  Mary,  Mary,  you  will  live,  my  child,  to  bless  your 
desolate  and  wretched  mother.  Oh,  my  God,  mj  God,  why 
hast  thou  thus  forsaken  me  ?  I  have  trusted  in  thee,  and  wilt 
thou  now  thus  fail  me  ?  To  whom  can  I  appeal — what  friend 
have  I  near  me  ?" 

"  Mother  do  not  speak  thus,"  exclaimed  Mary,  roused  from 
the  lethargy  of  exhaustion  by  her  mother's  despairing  words, 
and  she  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside  her,  and  threw  her 
arms  around  her.  "  Mother,  my  own  mother,  the  God  of  the 
widow  and  the  fatherless  is  still  our  friend  ;  He  hath  not  for- 
saken us,  though  for  a  time  His  countenance  is  darkened  to- 
wards us.  Oh,  He  will  have  mercy ;  He  will  raise  us  up  a 
friend — I  feel,  I  know  He  will.  He  will  relieve  us.  Let  us 
but  trust  in  Him,  mother  ;  let  us  not  fail  now.  Oh,  let  us 
pray  to  Him,  and  He  will  answer." 

The  eyes  of  the  good  and  gentle  girl  were  lit  up  with  sud- 
den radiance.  Her  pallid  cheek  was  faintly  flushed  ;  her  whole 
countenance  and  tone  expressed  the  enthusiasm,  the  holiness 
which  had  characterized  her  whole  life.  Mrs.  Greville  clasped 
her  faded  form  convulsively  to  her  aching  bosom,  and,  drooping 
her  head,  wept  long  and  freoly. 

"  Father,  I  have  sinned,"  she  murmured ;  "  oh,  have 
mercy." 

An  hour  passed,  and  neither  Mary  nor  her  mother  moved 
from  that  posture  of  affliction,  yet  of  prayer.  They  heard  not 
the  sound  of  many  voices  below,  nor  a  rapid  footstep  on  the 
stairs.  The  opening  of  the  door  aroused  them,  but  Mary 
looked  not  up ;  she  clung  closer  to  her  mother,  for  she  feared 
to  gaze  again  on  Dupont.  A  wild  exclamation  of  joy,  of 
thanksgiving,  bursting  from  Mrs.  Greville's  lips  startled  her  ; 
for  a  moment  she  trembled,  yet  she  could  not  be  mistaken,  that 


THE   MOTHERS   RECOMPENSE.  389 

tone  was  joy.  Slowly  she  looked  on  the  intruder.  Wildly 
she  sprung  up — she  clasped  her  hands  together. 

"  My  God,  I  thank  thee,  we  are  saved  !"  broke  from  her 
parched  lips,  and  ?lie  sunk  senseless  at  Mr.  Hamilton's  feet. 

Emissaries  of  wickedness  were  not  wanting  to  convey  the 
intelligence  very  quickly  to  Dupont's  ear,  that  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Greville  had  departed  from  the  Rue  Royale,  under  the  pro- 
tection of  an  English  gentleman,  who  had  stationed  two  of 
his  servants  at  their  house  to  protect  Mr.  Greville's  body  from 
insult,  and.given  him  information  of  all  that  took  place  during 
his  absence.  Furiously  enraged,  Dupont  hastened  to  know 
the  truth  of  these  reports,  and  a  scene  of  fierce  altercation 
took  place  between  him  and  Mr.  Hamilton.  The  calm,  steady 
firmness  of  his  unexpected  opponent  daunted  Dupont  as 
much  as  his  cool,  sarcastic  bitterness  galled  him  to  the  quick. 
The  character  of  the  man  was  known ;  he  was  convinced  he 
dared  not  bring  down  shame  on  the  memory  of  Greville  with- 
out inculpating  himself,  without  irretrievably  injuring  his  own 
character,  and  however  he  might  use  threat  as  his  weapon  to 
compel  Mary's  submission,  Mr.  Hamilton  was  perfectly  easy  on 
that  head.  Dupont's  cowardly  nature  very  soon  evinced  itself. 
A  few  words  from  Mr.  Hamilton  convinced  him  that  his  true 
character  had  been  penetrated,  and  dreading  exposure,  he 
changed  his  ground  and  his  tone,  acknowledged  he  had  been 
too  violent,  but  that  his  admiration  for  Miss  Greville  had  been 
the  sole  cause ;  expressed  deep  sorrow  for  Mr.  Greville's  me- 
lancholy end  ;  disavowed  all  intention  of  preventing  the  in- 
terment of  the  body,  and  finally  consented  to  liquidate  all 
debts  save  those  which  the  sale  of  the  house  and  furniture 
might  suffice  to  discharge. 

Scarcely  could  Mr.  Hamilton  command  his  indignation 
during  this  interview,  or  listen  to  Dupont's  professions,  ex- 
cuses, defences,  and  concessions,  without  losing  temper.  He 
would  not  consent  to  be  under  any  obligation ;  if  M.  Dupont 
could  prove  that  more  was  owing  than  that  which  he  had  con- 
sented  to  receive,  it  should  be  paid  directly,  but  he  should  in 
stitute  inquiries  as  to  the  legality  of  his  claims,  and  carefully 
examine  all  the  papers  of  the  deceased. 

"  It  was  not  at  all  necessary,"  Dupont  replied.  "  The  sura 
he  demanded  was  due  for  debts  of  honor,  which  he  had  a  slip 
of  paper  in  Greville's  own  handwriting  to  prove." 

Mr.  Hamilton  made  no  further  reply,  and  they  parted  with 
nothing  decided  on  either  side,  Dupont  only  repeating  his  ex- 


390  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

treme  distress  at  having  caused  Miss  Greville  so  much  unne- 
cessary pain  ;  that  had  he  known  she  was  engaged  to  another, 
he  would  never  have  persisted  in  his  suit,  and  deeply  regretted 
he  had  been  so  deceived. 

Mr.  Hamilton  heard  him  with  an  unchanging  countenance, 
and  gravely  and  formally  bowed  him  out  of  the  house.  He 
then  placed  his  seal  on  the  lock  of  a  small  cabinet,  which  Mrs. 
Greville's  own  faithful  English  servant  informed  him  con- 
tained all  his  master's  private  papers,  dismissed  the  French ' 
domestics,  and  charging  the  Englishmen  to  be  careful  in  their 
watch  that  no  strangers  should  be  admitted,  he  hasten  fid  to 
impart  to  his  anxiously-expecting  sons  all  the  important  busi- 
ness he  had  transacted. 

Early  the  following  morning  Mr.  Hamilton  received  intel- 
ligence which  very  much  annoyed  and  startled  him.  Notwith- 
standing the  vigilant  watch  of  the  three  Englishmen  stationed 
at  Mr.  Greville's  house,  the  cabinet,  which  contained  all  his 
private  papers,  was  gone.  The  men  declared  again  and  again, 
no  one  could  have  entered  the  house  without  their  knowledge, 
or  remove  such  a  thing  as  that  without  some  noise.  Mr.  Ha- 
milton went  instantly  with  them  to  the  house ;  how  it  had 
been  taken  he  could  not  discover,  but  it  was  so  small  that  Mr. 
Hamilton  felt  it  could  easily  have  been  removed ;  and  he  had 
no  doubt  that  Dupont  had  bribed  one  of  the  dismissed  ser- 
vants, who  was  well  acquainted  with  every  secret  of  the  house, 
to  purloin  it  for  him,  and  Dupont  he  instantly  determined  on 
charging  with  the  atrocious  theft.  Dupont,  however,  had  de- 
camped, he  was  nowhere  to  be  found ;  but  he  had  desired  an 
agent  to  receive  from  Mr.  Hamilton's  hands  the  payment  of 
the  debt  he  still  claimed,  and  from  this  man  it  was  endea- 
vored by  many  questions  to  discover  some  traces  of  his  em- 
ployer, but  all  in  vain.  M.  Dupont  had  left  Paris,  he  said, 
the  previous  evening. 

Mr.  Hamilton  was  not  satisfied,  and,  consequently,  seeking 
an  able  solicitor,  put  the  affair  into  his  hands,  and  desired  that 
he  would  use  every  means  in  his  power  to  obtain  the  restora 
tion  of  the  papers.  That  Dupont  had  it  in  his  power  farther 
to  injure  the  widow  and  child  of  the  deceased  he  did  not  be- 
lieve ;  he  rather  thought  that  his  extreme  desire  to  obtain 
them  proceeded  from  a  consciousness  that  they  betrayed  some 
of  his  own  evil  deeds,  yet  he  could  not  feel  easy  till  they  were 
either  regained,  or  he  knew  that  they  were  destroyed.  Mrs. 
Grcvill*  earnestly  wished  their  recovery,  for  she  feared  they 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  391 

might,  through  the  similarity  of  namcsl  bring  some  evil  on  her 
BOD,  towards  whom  her  fond  heart  yet  painfully  yearned, 
though  years  had  passed  since  she  had  seei^,  and  many  weary 
months  since  she  had  heard  of  him.  Her  fears  on  this  head 
rendered  both  Mr.  Hamilton  and  Percy  still  more  active  in 
their  proceedings,  and  both  determined  on  remaining  at  Paris 
even  after  Herbert  and  Mrs.  Greville,  with  Mary,  had  left  for 
England. 

And  what  did  Herbert  feel  as  he  Icoked  on  the  fearful 
change  in  her  he  loved  ?  Not  yet  did  he  think  that  she  must 
die;  that  beaming  eye,  that  radiant  cheek,  that  soft,  street 
smile — oh,  could  such  things  tell  of  death  to  him  who  loved? 
He  held  her  to  his  heart,  and  only  knew  that  he  was  blessed. 

And  Mary,  she  was  happy ;  the  past  seemed  as  a  dim  and 
troubled  vision ;  the  smile  of  him  she  loved  was  ever  near  her, 
his  low  sweet  voice  was  sounding  in  her  ear.  A  calm  had 
stolen  over  her,  a  holy,  soothing  calm.  She  did  not  speak  her 
thoughts  to  Herbert,  for  she  saw  that  he  still  hoped  on  ;  they 
were  together,  and  the  present  was  enough.  But  silently  she 
prayed  that  his  mind  might  be  so  prepared,  so  chastened,  that 
when  hii  eyes  were  opened,  the  truth  might  not  be  so  terrible 
to  bea~, 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

IT  was  indeed  a  day  of  happiness  that  beheld  the  arrival  of 
Mrs.  Greville  and  Mary  Oakwood,  unalloyed  to  them,  but 
not  so,  alaA !  to  those  who  received  them.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
pressed  the  faded  form  of  Mary  to  her  heart,  she  kissed  her 
repeatedly,  but  it  was  long  before  she  could  speak  the  words 
of  greeting ;  she  looked  on  her  and  on  her  son,  and  tears  rose  so 
thick  and  fast,  she  was  compelled  to  turn  away  to  hide  them. 
Ellen  alone  retained  her  calmness.  In  the  fond  embrace  that 
had  passed  between  her  and  Mary,  it  is  true  iTer  lip  had 
quivered  and  her  cheek  had  paled,  but  her  agitation  had  passed 
unnoticed. 

i:  It  was  her  voice,  my  Mary,  that  roused  me  to  exertion,  it 
was  her  representations  that  bade  me  not  despair,"  whispered 
Herbert,  as  he  hung  over  Mary's  couch  that  evening,  and  per- 
ceived Elien  busily  employed  in  arranging  her  pillows. 
"  When,  overwhelmed  by  the  .deep  misery  occasioned  by  your 
letter.  I  had  no  power  to  act,  it  was  her  ready  thought  that 
dictated  to  my  father  the  course  he  so  successfully  pursued." 


392  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Mary  pressed  the  hand  of  Ellen  within  both  her  own,  and 
looked  up  gratefully  in  her  face.  A  faint  smile  played  round 
the  orphan's  lips,  b^ut  she  made  no  observation  in  reply. 

A  very  few  weeks  elapsed  before  the  dreaded  truth  forced 
itself  upon  the  minds  of  all,  even  on  her  mother,  that  Mary 
was  sinking,  surely  sinking,  there  was  no  longer  hope.  De- 
votedly as  her  friends  loved  her,  they  could  n^t  sorrow,  before 
her  they  could  not  weep.  She  was  spared  all  bodily  suffering 
save  that  proceeding  from  debility,  so  extreme  she  could  not 
walk  across  the  room  without  assistance.  No  pain  distorted 
the  expression  of  her  features,  which,  in  this  hour  of  approach- 
ing death  looked  more  lovely  l.han  they  had  ever  seemed 
before ;  her  soft  blue  eye  beamed  at  times  with  a  celestial 
light,  and  her  fair  hair  shaded  a  brow  and  cheek  so  trans- 
parent, every  blue  vein  could  be  clearly  seen.  One  thought 
alone  gave  her  pain,  her  Herbert  she  felt  was  still  unprepared. 

He  was  speaking  one  day  of  the  future,  anticipating  the 
time  when  the  Rectory  would  receive  her  as  its  gentle  mistress, 
and  of  the  many  things  which  occupied  his  thoughts  for  the 
furtherance  of  her  comfort,  when  Mary  laid  her  hand  gently 
on  his  arm,  and  with  a  smile  of  peculiar  sweetness  said — 

"  Do  not  think  any  more  of  such  things,  my  beloved  ;  the 
mansion  which  will  behold  our  blessed  union  is  already 
furnished  and  prepared  ;  I  may  seek  it  first,  but  it  will  be  but 
to  render  it  even  yet  more  desirable  to  you." 

Herbert  looked  on  her  face  to  read  the  meaning  of  her 
words ;  he  read  them,  alas !  too  plainly,  but  voice  utterly 
failed 

';  Look  not  on  me  thus,"  she  continued,  in  that  same  plead- 
ing and  soothing  tone.  "  One  mansion  is  prepared  for  us 
above ;  below,  my  Herbert,  oh,  think  not  it  will  ever  receive 
me.  .  Why  should  I  hesitate  to  speak  the  truth?  The  blessed 
Saviour,  to  who^e  arms  I  so  soon  sliall  go,  will  give  you  .strength 
to  bear  this ;  He  hath  promised  that  he  will,  my  own  Herbert, 
my  first,  my  only  love.  My  Saviour  calls  me,  and  to  Him,  oh, 
can  you  not  without  tears  resign  me  ?" 

'•Mary,"  murmured  the  unhappy  Herbert,  "Mary,  oh,  do 
not,  do  not  torture  me.  You  will  not  die';  you  will  not  leave 
nie  desolate." 

"  I  shall  not  die,  but  live,  my  beloved — live,  oh,  in  such 
blessedness !  'tis  but  a  brief,  brief  parting,  Herbert,  to  meet 
and  love  eternally." 

"  You  are  ill,  you  are  weak,  my  own  Mary,  and  thus  death 


THE    MOTHER'S    RECOMPENSE.  393 

is  ever  present  to  your  mind  ;  but  you  -will  recover,  oh,  I  know. 
1  feel  you  will.  My  God  will  bear  my  prayers." 

"  And  he  will  grant  them,  Herbert — oh,,  doubt  Him  not, 
grant  them,  even  in  my  removal.  He  takes  me  not  from  you, 
my  Herbert,  He  but  places  me,  where  to  seek  me,  you  must 
look  to  and  love  but  Him  alone  ;  and  will  you  shrink  from 
tnis?  Will  that  spirit,  vowed  to  His  service  from  your  earliest 
boyhood,  now  murmur  at  his  will?  Oh,  no.  no;  my  Herbert 
will  yet  support  and  strengthen  his  Mary,  I  know,  I  feel  he 
will.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  pained  you,  my  best  love  ;  but  I 
could  bear  no  other  lips  than  mine  to  tell  you,  that  on  earth 
I  may  not  live — but  a  brief  space  more,  ana  I  shall  be  called 
away.  You  must  not  mourn  for  me,  my  Herbert :  I  die  so 
happy,  oh,  so  very  happy  !" 

Herbert  had  sunk  on  his  knees  beside  her  couch ;  he 
drooped  his  head  upon  his  hands,  and  a  strong  convulsion 
shook  his  frame.  He  uttered  no  sound,  he  spoke  no  .word,  but 
Mary  could  read  the  overwhelming  anguish  that  bowed  his 
spirit  to  the  earth.  The  words  were  spoken ;  he  knew  that 
she  must  die,  and  Mary  raised  her  mild  eyes  to  heaven,  and 
clasped  her  hands  in  earnest  prayer  for  him.  "  Forsake  him 
not  now,  oh  God  ;  support  him  now;  oh,  give  him  strength  to 
meet  Thy  will,"  was  the  import  of  her  prayer.  Long  was  that 
deep,  deep  stillness,  but  when  Herbert  looked  up  again  he  was 
calm. 

"  May  God  in  heaven  bless  you,  my  beloved,"  he  said,  and 
imprinted  a  long,  fervent  kiss  upon  her  forehead.  "  You  have 
taught  me  my  Saviour's  will,  and  I  will  meet  it.  May  he  for- 
give— "  His  words  failed  him  ;  again  he  held  her  to  his  heart, 
and  then  he  sat  by  her  side  and  read  from  the  Book  of  Life, 
of  peace,  of  comfort,  those  passages  which  might  calm  this  an- 
guish  and  strengthen  her ;  he  read  till  sleep  closed  the  eyea 
of  his  beloved.  Yes,  she  was  the  idol  of  his  young  affections; 
he  felt  her  words  were  true,  and  when  she  was  gone,  thero 
would  be  nought  to  bind  his  spirit  to  this  world. 

It  would  be  needless  to  lift  the  veil  from  Herbert's  moments 
of  solitary  prayer.  Those  who  have  followed  him  through  his 
boyhood,  and  traced  his  character,  need  no  description  of  his 
feelings.  We  know  the  intensity  of  his  earthly  affections,  the 
strength  and  force  of  his  every  emotion,  the  depth  and  holiness 
of  his  spiritual  sentiments,  and  vain  then  would  be  the  attempt 
to  portray  his  private  moments  in  this  dread  trial :  yet  before 
his  family  he  was  calm,  before  his  Mary  cheerful.  She  felt  her 
17* 


594  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

prayers  were  heard ;  he  was,  he  would  be  yet  more  supported, 
and  her  last  pang  was  soothed. 

Mr.  Hamilton  had  returned  from  France,  unsuccessful, 
however,  in  his  wish  to  obtain  the  restitution  of  Greville's  pa- 
pers.  Dupont  had  concealed  his  measures  so  artfully,  and 
with  such  efficacy,  that  no  traces  were  discovered  regarding 
him.  and  Mr.  Hamilton  felt  it  was  no  use  to  remain  himself, 
confident  in  the  integrity  and  abilities  of  the  solicitor  to  whom 
he  had  intrusted  the  whole  affair;  he  was  unaccompanied, 
however,  by  Percy,  who,  as  his  sister's  wedding  was,  from  Ma- 
ry's illness,  postponed,  determined  on  paying  Lord  and  Lady 
St.  Eval  a  visit  at  Geneva. 

As  Emmeline's  engagement  with  Arthur  very  frequently 
engrossed  her  time,  Ellen  had  devoted  herself  assiduously  as 
Mary's  constant  nurse,  and  well  and  tenderly  she  performed 
her  office.  There  was  no  selfishness  in  her  feelings ;  deeply, 
unfeignedly  she  sorrowed,  and  willingly,  gladly  would  she  have 
laid  down  her  life  to  preserve  Mary's,  that  this  fearful  trial 
might  be  removed  from  Herbert.  To  spare  him  one  pang,  oh, 
what  would  she  not  have  endured  ?  Controlled  and  calm,  who 
could  have  guessed  the  chaos  of  contending  feeling  that  was 
passing  within  ;  who,  that  had  seen  the  gentle  smile  with  which 
she  would  receive  Herbert's  impassioned  thanks  for  her  care 
of  his  Mary,  could  have  suspected  the  thrill,  the  pang  those 
simple  words  occasioned?  Mary  alone  of  those  around  her, 
except  Mrs.  Hamilton,  was  not  deceived.  She  loved  Ellen, 
had  long  done  so,  and  the  affectionate  attention  she  so  con- 
stantly received  from  her  had  drawn  the  bonds  of  friendship 
closer.  She  felt  convinced  she  was  not  happy,  that  there  was 
something  heavy  on  her  mind,  and  the  quick  intellect  of  a 
vivid  fancy  and  loving  nature  guessed  the  truth.  Her  wish  to 
see  her  happy  became  so  powerful,  that  she  could  not  control 
it.  She  fancied  that  Ellen  might  be  herself  deceived,  and  that 
the  object  of  her  affections  once  known,  all  difficulties  would 
be  smoothed.  The  idea  that  her  last  act  might  be  to  secure 
tlm  happiness  of  Ellen,  was  so  soothing  to  her  grateful  and 
affectionate  feelings,  that,  after  dwelling  on  it  some  time,  she 
took  the  first  opportunity  of  being  alone  with  her  friend  to 
Beck  her  confidence. 

"  No,  dearest,  do  not  read  to  me,"  she  said  one  evening,  in 
tnswer  to  Ellen's  question.  "  I  would  rather  talk  with  you  ; 
do  not  look  anxious,  I  will  not  fatigue  myself.  Come,  and  sit 
by  me.  dear  Ellen,  it  is  of  you  that'l  would  speak." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  395 

"  Of  me  ?"  repeated  Ellen,  surprised.  "  Nay,  dearest  Mary, 
can  you  tiot  find  a  more  interesting  subject?" 

"  No,  iove,  for  you  are  often  in  my  thoughts  ;  the  approach 
of  death  has.  I  think,  sharpened  every  faculty,  for  I  see  and 
read  trifies  clearer  than  I  ever  did  before ;  and  I  can  read 
through  ail  that  calm  control  and  constant  smile  that  you  are 
not  happy,  my  kind  Ellen ;  and  will  you  think  me  a  rude 
intruder  on  your  thoughts  if  I  ask  you  why?" 

"  Do  you  not  remember,  Mary,  I  was  ever  unlike  others  ?" 
replied  Ellen,  shrinking  from  her  penetrating  gaze.  "  I  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  lively  and  joyous  even  as  a  child,  and 
as  years  increase,  is  it  likely  that  I  should  ?  I  am  contented 
with  my  lot.  and  with  so  many  blessings  aroun  1 ;  .should  I  not 
be  ungrateful  were  I  otherwise  ?" 

';  You  evade  my  question,  Ellen,  and  convince  me  more  and 
more  that  I  am  right.  Ah,  you  know  not  how  my  last  hour 
would  be  soothed,  could  I  feel  that  I  had  done  aught  to  restore 
happiness  to  one  who  has  been  to  me  the  blessing  you  have 
been,  dear  Ellen."  — 

"  Think  not  of  it,  dearest  Mary,"  said  Ellen.  "  I  ought  to 
be  happy,  very  happy,  and  if  I  am  not,  it  is  my  own  wayward 
temper.  You  cannot  give  me  happiness,  Mary ;  do  not  let 
the  thought  of  me  disturb  you,  dearest ;  kind  as  is  your 
wish,  it  is  unavailing." 

"  Do  not  say  so,  Ellen ;  we  are  apt  to  look  on  sorrow,  while 
it  is  confined  to  our  own  anxious  breasts,  as  incurable  and 
lasting  ;  but  when  once  it  is  confessed,  how  quickly  do  difficul- 
ties vanish,  and  the  grief  is  often  gone  before  we  are  aware  it 
is  Jeparting.  Do  not,  dearest,  magnify  it  by  the  encourage- 
ment which  solitary  thought  bestows." 

"  Are  there  not  some  sorrows,  Mary,  which  are  better  ever 
concealed  ?  Does  not  the  opening  of  a  wound  often  make  it 
bleed  afresh,  whereas,  hidden  in  our  own  heart,  it  remains 
closed  till  tinre  has  healed  it?" 

41  Some  there  are,"  said  Mary,  "which  are  indeed  irremedia- 
ble, but" — she  paused  a  moment,  then  slightly  raising  herself 
on  her  couch,  she  threw  her  arm  round  Ellen's  neck,  and  said, 
in  a  low  yet  deeply  expressive  voice — "  is  your  love,  indeed,  so 
hopeless,  my  poor  Ellen  ?  Oh,  no,  it  cannot  be ;  surely,  there 
is  not  one  whom  you  have  known  sufficiently  to  give  your  pre- 
cious love,  can  look  on  you  and  not  return  it." 

Ellen  started,  a  deep  and  painful  flush  rose  for  a  moment 
to  her  cheek,  she  struggled  to  speak  calmly,  to  deny  the  truth 


396  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

of  Mary's  suspicion,  but  she  could  not,  the  secret  of  her  heart 
was  too  suddenly  exposed  before  her,  and  she  burst  into  u,ars 
How  quickly  will  a  word,  a  tone  destroy  the  well-maintained 
calmness  of  years ;  how  strangely  and  suddenly  will  the  voico 
of  sympathy  lift  from  the  heart  its  veil ! 

"  You  have  penetrated  my  secret,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
faltered,  "and  I  will  not  deny  it;  but  oh,  Mary,  let  us  speak 
no  more  of  it.  When  a  woman  is  weak  enough  to  bestow  her 
affections  on  one  who  never  sought,  who  will  never  seek  them, 
surely  the  more  darkly  they  are  hidden,  the  better  for  her  own 
peace  as  well  as  character.  Mj  'ove  was  not  called  for.  I 
never  had  aught  to  hope ;  and  if  that  unrequited  affection  be' 
the  destroyer  of  my  happiness,  it  has  sprui  2  from  my  own 
weakness,  and  I  alone  have  but  to  bear  it." 

"But  is  there  no  hope,  Ellen — none?  Do  not  Jiink  so, 
dearest.  If  his  affections  be  still  disengaged,  is  there  not  hopo 
that  they  may  one  day  be  yours  ? 

"  No,  Mary,  none.  I  knew  his  affections  were  engaged  ;  I 
knew  he  never  could  be  mine,  and  yet  I  loved  him.  Oh,  Mary, 
do  not  scorn  my  weakness ;  you  have  wrung  my  secret  from 
me,  do  not,  oh,  do  not  betray  me.  There  is  no  shame  in  loving 
one  so  good,  so  holy,  and  yet — and  yet — Mary,  dearest  Mary, 
promise  me  you  will  not  speak  it — I  cannot  rest  unless  you 
do;  let  it  pass  your  lips  to  none." 

"  It  shall  not,  my  Ellen  ;  be  calm,  your  secret  shall  die  with 
me,  dearest,"  replied  Mary,  earnestly,  for  Ellen's  feelings  com 
pletely  overpowered  her,  and  bursting  sobs  choked  her  utter- 
ance. 

"  F  r  me  there  is  no  hope.  Oh,  could  I  but  see  him  happy 
I  shi'Ui.1  ask  no  more;  but,  oh.  to  see  him  miserable,  and  fee? 
I  have  no  power  to  soothe — when — "  She  paused  abruptly, 
again  the  burning  blood  dyed  her  cheeks,  even  her  temples 
with  crimson,  llary's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  in  sympathy, 
in  love ;  Ellen  fancied  in  surprise,  yet  suspicion.  With  one 
powerful  effort  she  conquered  herself,  she  forced  back  the  scald- 
ing tears,  the  convulsive  sob,  and  bending  over  Mary,  pressed 
her  trembling  lips  upon  her  pale  brow. 

"  Let  us  speak  no  more  of  this,  dearest  Mary,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  calm  voice.  "  May  God  bless  your  intended  kindness. 
It  is  over  now.  Forgive  me,  dearest  Mary,  I  have  agitated 
nnd  disturbed  you." 

".Nay,  forgive  me,  my  sweet  Ellen.  It  is  I  who  have  given 
you  pain,  and  should  ask  your  forgiveness.  I  thought  not  of 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  3^>/ 

B'uch  utter  hopelessness.  I  had  hoped  that,  ere  I  departed,  I 
niight  have  seen  the  dawn  of  happiness  for  you ;  but  I  see,  I 
feel  now  that  cannot  be.  My  own  Ellen,  I  need  not  tell  you 
the  comfort,  the  blessed  comfort  of  prayer." 

For  a  few  minutes  there  was  silence.  Ellen  had  clasped 
the  hand  of  Mary,  and  turned  aside  her  head  to  conceal  the 
tears  that  slowly  stole  down  her  cheek.  The  entrance  of 
Emmeline  was  a  relief  to  both,  and  Ellen  left  the  room  ;  and 
when  she  returned,  even  to  Mary's  awakened  eyes,  there  were 
no  traces  of  agitation.  Each  week  produced  a  visible  change 
in  Mary ;  she  became  weaker  and  weaker,  but  her  mind 
retained  its  energy,  and  often  her  sorrowing  friends  feared 
she  would  pass  from  the  detaining  grasp  of  love,  ere  they 
were  aware  of  the  actual  moment  of  her  departure.  One 
evening  she  begged  that  all  the  family  might  assemble  in  her 
room  ;  she  felt  stronger,  and  wished  to  see  them  altogether 
again.  Her  wish  was  complied  with,  and  she  joined  so  cheer- 
fully in  the  conversation  that  passed  around,  that  her  mother 
and  Herbert  forgot  anxiety.  It  was  a  soft  and  lovely  even- 
ing ;  her  couch,  at  her  own  request,  had  been  drawn  to  the 
open  window,  and  the  dying  girl  looked  forth  on  the  beautiful 
scene  beneath.  The  trees  bore  the  rich  full  green  of  summer, 
save  where  the  brilliantly  setting  sun  tinged  them  with  hues 
of  gold  and  crimson.  Part  of  the  river  was  also  discernible 
at  this  point,  lying  in  the  bosom  of  trees,  as  a  small  lake,  on 
which  the  heavens  were  reflected  in  all  their  surpassing  splen- 
dor. The  sun,  or  rather  its  remaining  beams,  rested  on  the 
brow  of  a  hill,  which,  lying  in  the  deepest  shadow,  formed  a 
superb  contrast  with  the  flood  of  liquid  gold  that  bathed 
its  brow.  Clouds  of  purple,  gold,  crimson,  in  some  parts 
fading  into  pink,  floated  slowly  along  the  azure  heavens,  and 
the  perfect  stillness  that  reigned  around  completed  the  en- 
chantment of  the  scene. 

(;  Look  up.  my  Mary,  and  mark  those  clouds  of  light."  said 
Herbert.  4i  See  the  splendor  of  their  hues,  the  unstained  blue 
beyond  ;  beautiful  as  is  earth,  it  shows  not  such  exquisite 
beauty  as  yon  heaven  displays,  even  to  our  mortal  sight,  nor 
calls  such  feelings  of  adoration  forth.  What  then  will  it  be 
when  that  blue  arch  is  rent  asunder,  and  the  effulgent  glory 
of  the  Maker  of  that  heaven  bursts  upon  our  view  ?" 

':  Blessed,  oh,  how  blessed  are  those  who,  conducted  by  the 
Lamb  of  God,  can  share  that  glory,"  answered  Mary,  with 


398  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

sudden  energy.  "  Who  can  speak  the  unutterable  love, 
while  the  bounteous  earth  yet  retains  the  traces  of  an  awful 
curse,  hath  washed  from  man  his  sin,  and  takes  from  death  itti 
sting?" 

"  And  it  is  this  thought,  this  faith  which  supports  you  now, 
my  Mary  ?"  demanded  Herbert,  with  that  deep  tenderness  ot 
tone  so  peculiarly  his  own. 

"  It  is,  it  is,"  she  answered  fervently.  "  My  sins  are  washed 
away  ;  my  prayers  are  heard,  for  my  Saviour  pleads,  and  my 
home  is  prepared  on  high  amid  the  redeemed  and  the  saved. 
Oh,  blessed  be  the  God  of  truth  that  hath  granted  me  this 
faith" — she  paused  a  minute,  then  added — "and  heard  my 
prayer,  my  beloved  Herbert,  and  permitted  me  thus  tc  die  ID 
my  native  land,  surrounded  by  those  I  love  !" 

She  leaned  her  head  on  Herbert's  bosom,  and  for  some 
time  remained  silent ;  then  looking  up,  said  cheerfully,  "  Do 
you  remember,  Emmeline,  when  we-,  were  together  some  few 
years  ago,  we  always  said  such  a  scene  and  hour  as  this  only 
wanted  music  to  make  it  perfect  ?  I  feel  as  if  all  those  fresh 
delightful  feelings  of  girlhood  had  come  over  me  again.  Bring 
your  harp  and  sing  to  me,  dearest,  those  words  you  read  to  me 
the  other  day." 

"Nay,  Mary,  will  it  not  disturb  you?"  said  Emmeline, 
kneeling  by  her  couch,  and  kissing  the  thin  hand  extended 
to  her. 

"  No,  dearest,  not  your  soft  sweet  voice,  it  will  soothe  and 
give  me  pleasure.  I  feel  stronger  and  better  to-night  than 
I  have  done  for  some  time.  Sing  to  me.  but  only  those  words, 
dear  Emmy ;  all  others  would  neither  suit  this  scene  nor  my 
feelings." 

For  a  moment  Emmeline  hesitated,  and  looked  towards 
her  mother  and  Mrs.  Greville.  Neither  was  inclined  to  make 
any  objection  tt,  her  request,  and  on  the  appearance  of  her 
harp,  undor  the  superintendence  of  Arthur.  Emmeline  pre- 
pared to  comply.  She  placed  the  instrument  at  the  further 
end  of  the  apartment,  that  the  notes  might  fall  softer  on 
Mary's  ear,  and  sung,  in  a  sweet  and  plaintive  voice,  the  fol 
towing  words : — 

"Remember  me !  ah,  not  with  sorrow, 

Tis  but  sleep  to  wake  in  bliss. 
Life's  gayest  hours  can  seek  to  borrow 
Vainly  such  a  dream  a8  this. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  399 

"Ah.  see,  'tis  heaven  itself  revealing 
To  my  dimmed  and  failing  sight; 
And  hark !  'tis  angels'  voices  stealing 
Through  the  starry  veil  of  night. 

"Come,  brother,  come;  ah,  quickly  sever 

The  cold  links  of  earth's  dull  chain; 
Come  to  thy  home,  where  thou  wilt  never 
Pain  or  sorrow  feel  again. 

'  Come,  hrother,  come  ;  we  spread  before  thee 

Visions  of  thy  blissful  home; 
Heed  not,  if  Death's  cold  pang  come  o'er  thee, 
It  will  but  bid  thee  haste  and  come !" 

Ah,  yes,  I  see  bright  forms  are  breaking 

Through  the  mist  that  veils  mine  eyes; 
Now  gladly,  gladly,  earth  forsaking, 

Take,  oh,  take  me  to  the  skies. 

•  Remember  me  !  though  upward  flying, 

Still  I  wait  love's  last  fond  kiss, 
Then,  oh,  farewell ;  my  spirit's  sighing 
To  behold  its  home  of  bliss." 

The  mournful  strain  ceased,  and  there  was  silence.  Emme- 
line  had  adapted  the  words  to  that  beautiful  air  of  Weber's, 
the  last  composition  of  his  gifted  mind.  Mary's  head  still 
rested  on  the  bosom  of  Herbert,  her  hand  clasped  his.  Even- 
ing was  darkening  into  twilight,  or  the  expression  of  her 
countenance  might  have  been  remarked  as  changed — more 
spiritual,  as  if  the  earthly  shell  had  shared  the  beatified  glory 
of  the  departing  spirit.  She  fixed  her  fading  eyes  on  Ellen, 
who  was  kneeling  by  her  couch,  steadily  and  calmly,  but  Ellen 
saw  her  not,  for  in  that  hour  her  eyes  were  fixed,  as  in  fascina- 
tion, on  the  form  of  Herbert,  as  he  bent  over  his  beloved. 
The  dying  girl  saw  that  mournful  glance,  and  a  gleam  of  intel- 
ligence passed  over  her  beautiful  features.  She  extended  one 
hand  to  Ellen,  who  clasped  it  fondly,  and  then  she  tried  to 
draw  it  towards  Herbert.  She  looked  up  in  his  face,  as  if  to 
explain  the  meaning  of  the  action,  but  voice  and  strength  ut- 
terly failed,  and  Ellen's  hand  dropped  from  her  grasp. 

l<  Kiss  me,  Herbert,  I  would  sleep,"  she  said,  so  faintly, 
Herbert  alone  heard  it.  Their  lips  met  in  one  long  lingering 
kiss,  and  then  Mary  drooped  her  head  again  upon  his  bosom, 
and  seemed  to  sleep  so  gently,  so  sweetly,  her  friends  held 
their  breath  lest  they  should  disturb  her.  Nearly  half  an 
hour  passed,  and  still  there  was  no  movement.  The  full  soft 


400  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

light  of  an  unclouded  moon  fell  within  that  silent  chamber 
and  gilded  the  forms  of  Mary  and  Herbert  with  a  silvery  halo, 
that  seemed  to  fall  from  heaven  itself  up<*u  them.  Mary'a 
head  had  fallen  slightly  forward,  and  her  long  luxuriant  hair, 
escaped  from  its  confinement,  concealed  her  features  as  a  veil 
of  shadowy  gold.  Gently  and  tenderly  Herbert  raised  her 
head,  so  as  to  rest  upon  his  arm  ;  as  he  did  so  her  hair  fell 
back  and  fully  exposed  her  countenance.  A  faint  cry  broke 
from  his  parched  lips,  and  Ellen  started  in  agony  to  her 
feet. 

l-  Hush,  hush,  my  Mary  sleeps,"  Mrs.  Gievule  said;  but 
Mr.  Hamilton  gently  drew  her  from  the  couch  and  from  the 
room.  Her  eyes  were  closed ;  a  smile  illumined  that  swtjt 
face,  as  in  sleep  it  had  often  done,  and  that  soft  and  shadowy 
light  took  from  her  features  all  the  harsher  tale  of  death. 
Yes,  she  did  sleep  sweetly  and  calmly,  but  her  pure  spirit  had 
departed. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

IT  was  long,  very  long,  ere  Mr.  Hamilton's  family  recovered 
the  shock  of  Mary's  death.  She  had  been  so  long  loved,  living 
amongst  them  from  her  birth,  her  virtues  and  gentleness  were 
so  well  known  and  appreciated  by  every  member.  She  had 
been  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  so  long  considered  as  their 
child,  by  her  betrothment  with  their  Herbert,  that  they  sor- 
rowed for  her  as  if  indeed  she  had  been  bound  to  them  by 
that  tender  tie  ;  and  her  poor  mother  now  felt  desolate :  her  only 
treasure,  her  precious,  almost  idolized  Mary,  was  taken  from  her, 
and  she  was  childless,  for  of  Alfred  she  had  long  ceased  to  re- 
ceive intelligence.  She  bowed  her  hend,  earnestly  striving  for 
submission,  but  it  was  long,  long  ere  peace  returned  ;  soothed 
Bhe  was  indeed  by  the  tender  kindness  of  her  friends  ;  but 
what  on  earth  can  soothe  a  bereaved  and  doting  mother? 
Einmeline,  Ellen,  Herbert,  even  Arthur  Myrvin,  treated  her 
with  all  the  love  and  reverence  of  children,  but  neither  could 
fill  the  aching  void  within.  On  Herbert  indeed  her  spirit 
rested  with  more  fondness  than  on  any  other  object,  but  it 
was  with  a  foreboding  love ;  she  looked  on  him  and  trembled. 
It  was  a  strange  and  affecting  sight,  could  any  one  have  looked 
on  those  two  afflicted  ones  :  to  hear  Herbert  speak  words  of  holy 
comfort  to  the  mother  of  his  Mary,  to  hear  him  speak  of  hope/ 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  401 

of  resignation,  mark  the  impress  of  that  heavenly  virtue  on 
his  pale  features  ;  his  grief  was  all  internal,  not  a  word  escaped 
his  lips,  not  a  thought  of  repining  crossed  his  chastened  mind. 
The  extent  of  that  deep  anguish  was  seen  alone  in  his  fading 
form,  in  his  pallid  features;  but  it  was  known  only  to  the 
Searcher  of  all  hearts.  He  had  wished  to  perform  the  last 
office  to  his  Mary,  but  his  father  and  Archdeacon  Howard 
conjured  him  to  abandon  the  idea,  and  suffer  the  latter  to  take 
hia  place.  All  were  bathed  in  tears  during  that  solemn  and 
uwful  service.  Scarcely  couiu  Mr.  Howard  command  his  voice 
throughout,  and  his  concluding  words  were  wholly  inaudible. 
But  no  movement  was  observable  in  Herbert's  slight  and  boyish 
form  ;  enveloped  in  his  long  mourning  robe,  his  features  could 
not  be  seen,  but  there  was  somewhat  around  him  that  created 
in  the  breasts  of  all  who  beheld  him  a  sensation  of  reverence. 
All  departed  from  the  lowly  grave,  but  Herbert  yet  remained 
motionless  and  silent.  His  father  and  Myrvin  gently  sought 
to  lead  him  away,  but  scarcely  had  he  proceeded  two  paces, 
when  he  sunk  down  on  the  grass  in  a  long  and  deathlike 
swoon  ;  so  painfully  had  it  the  appearance  of  death,  that  his 
father  and  friends  believed  for  a  time  that  his  spirit  had  in- 
deed fled  to  seek  his  Mary ;  but  he  recovered.  There  was 
such  an  aspect  of  serenity  and  submission  in  his  countenance, 
that  all  who  loved  him  would  have  been  at  peace,  had  not  the 
thought  pressed  heavily  on  their  minds  that  such  feelings  were 
not  long  for  earth.  , 

These  fainting  fits  returned  at  intervals,  and  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, whilst  she  struggled  to  lift  up  her  soul  in  undying  faith  to 
the  God  of  Love,  and  resignedly  commit  into  His  hands  the 
life  and  death  of  her  beloved  sou,  yet  every  time  she  gazed  on 
him,  while  lying  insensible  before  her,  felt  more  and  more 
how  difficult  wus  the  lesson  she  so  continually  strove  to  learn  , 
how  hard  it  would  be  to  part  from  him,  if  indeed  he  were  called 
away.  She  compared  her  lot  with  Mrs.  Greville's,  and  thought 
how  much  greater  was  her  trial ;  and  yet,  she,  too,  was  a  mo- 
ther, and  though  so  many  other  gifts  were  vouchsafed  her, 
Herbert  was  as  dear  to  her  as  Mary  had  been  to  Mrs.  Greville. 
Must  she  lose  him  now,  now  that  the  fruit  she  had  so  fondly  che- 
rished, watched  as  it  expanded  from  the  infant  germ,  had  bloomed 
so  richly  to  repay  her  care,  would  he  be  taken  from  her,  no\» 
that  every  passing  month  appeared  to  increase  his  love  for  her 
and  hers  for  him  ?  for  Herbert  clung  to  his  mother  in  this* 
dread  hour  of  affliction  with  increasing  fondness.  True,  ht» 


402  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE 

never  spoke  the  extent  of  his  feelings  even  to  her,  but  his  man- 
ner betrayed  how  much  he  loved  her,  how  deeply  he  felt  her 
sympathy,  which  said  that  next  to  his  God,  he  leaned  on  her. 

At  first  Mr.  Hamilton  wished  his  son  to  resign  the  Rectory 
and  join  his  brother  and  sister  at  Geneva, and  then  accompany 
Percy  on  his  travels  ;  but  mournfully  yet  steadily  Herbert  re- 
jected this  plan. 

"  No,  father,"  he  said.  "  My  duties  as  a  son  and  brother, 
as  well  as  the  friend  and  father  of  the  flock  committed  to  my 
charge,  will  be  far  more  soothing  and  beneficial,  believe  me, 
than  travelling  in  far  distant  lands.  My  health  is  at  present 
such,  that  my  home  and  the  beloved  friends  of  my  infancy 
appear  dearer  to  me  than  ever,  and  I  cannot  part  from  them 
tc  seek  happiness  elsewhere.  I  will  do  all  in  my  power,  by 
the  steady  discharge  of  my  many  and  interesting  duties,  to 
preserve  my  health  and  restore  peace  and  contentment.  I 
seek  not  to  resign  my  charge  in  this  world  till  my  Saviour 
calls  me ;  His  work  has  yet  to  be  done  on  earth,  and  till  lie 
dismisses  me,  I  will  cheerfully  perform  it ;  till  then  do  not  ask 
ine  to  forsake  it. ' 

Mr.  Hamilton  wrung  his  son's  hand  in  silence,  and  never 
again  urged  his  departure. 

There  was  no  selfishness  in  Herbert's  sorrow ;  he  was  still 
the  devoted  son,  the  affectionate  brother,  the  steady  friend  to 
his  own  immediate  circle ;  and  to  the  poor  committed  to  his 
spiritual  charge,  he  was  in  truth,  as  he  had  said  he  would  be, 
a  father  and  a  friend.  In  soothing  the  sufferings  of  others, 
his  own  became  less  bitterly  severe;  in  bidding  others  hope, 
and  watch,  and  pray,  he  found  his  own  spirit  strengthened  and 
its  fremient  struggles  calmed.  With  such  unwavering  steadi- 
ness were  his  duties  performed,  that  his  bodily  sufferings 
never  could  have  been  discovered,  had  not  those  alarming 
faints  sometimes  overpowered  him  in  the  cottages  he  visited 
ere  his  duties  were  completed ;  and  he  was  thankful,  when 
such  was  the  case,  that  it  occurred  when  from  home,  that  his 
mother  was  thus  sometimes  spared  anxiety.  He  would  walk 
on  quietly  home,  remain  some  little  time  in  his  own  chamber, 
and  then  join  his  family  cheerful  and  composed  as  usual,  thai 
no  one  might  suspect  he  had  been  ill. 

Arthur  Myrvin  often  gazed  on  his  friend  with  emotions  of 
admiration,  almost  amounting  to  awe.  His  love  for  Emmeline 
was  the  strongest  feeling  of  his  heart,  and  when  for  a  moment 
Ue  fancied  her  snatched  from  him,  as  Mary  had  been  from 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  403 

Herbert,  he  felt  he  knew  he  could  not  have  acted  like  his 
friend  ;  he  must  have  flown  from  scenes,  every  trace  of  which 
could  speak  of  the  departed,  or,  if  he  had  remained,  he  could 
not,  as  Herbert  did,  have  attended  to  his  duties,  have  been 
like  him  so  calm. 

In  the  society  of  his  cousin  Ellen,  Herbert  found  both 
Bolace  and  pleasure.  She  had  been  so  devoted  to  the  departed, 
that  he  felt  he  loved  her  more  fondly  than  he  had  ever  done, 
and  he  would  seek  her  as  the  companion  of  a  walk,  and  give 
her  directions  as  to  the  cottages  he  sometimes  wished  her  to 
visit,  with  a  portion  of  his  former  animation,  but  Ellen  never 
permitted  herself  to  be  deceived  ;  it  was  still  a  brother's  love, 
she  knew  it  could  never  be  more,  and  she  struggled  long  to 
control,  if  not  to  banish,  the  throb  of  joy  that  ever  filled  her 
bosom  when  she  perceived  there  were  times  when  she  had 
power  to  call  the  smile  to  Herbert's  pensive  features. 

Percy's  letters  were  such  as  to  soothe  his  brother  by  his 
affectionate  sympathy ;  to  betray  more  powerfully  than  ever  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  how  dear  to  each  other  were  their 
sons,  how  pure  and  consoling  was  the  friendship  subsisting  be- 
tween them,  and  on  other  points  to  give  much  pleasure  to  all 
his  family.  Caroline's  health  was  much  improved  ;  her  little 
son,  Percy  declared,  was  such  a  nice,  merry  fellow,  and  so 
handsome,  that  he  was  quite  sure  he  resembled  in  all  respects 
what  he,  Percy  Hamilton,  must  have  been  at  the  venerable  ago 
of  two  years.  He  said  farther,  that  as  Lord  and  Lady  St. 
Eval  were  going  to  make  the  tour  of  the  principal  cities  of 
Europe,  he  should  remain  with  them  and  be  contented  vrith 
what  they  saw,  instead  of  rambling  alone  all  over  the  world,  as 
he  had  intended.  At  first  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  were  some- 
what surprised  v,t  this  decision,  but  knowing  the  nature  of 
their  son,  began  to  fancy  that  a  certain  Miss  Manvers  had 
something  to  do  with  it,  the  sister  of  Lord  Delmont,  the  Earl 
St.  EvaPs  most  intimate  friend,  and  the  chosen  friend  of  Mary 
Greville  during  her  residence  at  Monte  Rosa.  In  Lord  Del 
mont's  will  he  had  left  the  Earl  guardian  of  his  sister  d  aring 
the  year  that  intervened  before  her  coming  of  age,  an  office 
which  rendered  St.  Eval  still  more  intimate  with  the  family. 
On  his  way  to  Geneva  he  had  heard  from  Miss  Manvers  of  her 
mother's  death,  and  that  she  was  residing  with  an  English 
family  on  the  banks  of  the  Lake.  The  information  that  her 
brother's  friend,  a«d  indeed  her  own,  with  his  wife  and  family, 
intended  spending  some  little  time  at  Geneva,  was  a  source  of 


404  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

so  much  pleasure,  that  after  a  little  hesitation  she  accepted 
the  earnest  invitation  of  both  the  Earl  and  his  lady,  and 
gladly  and  gratefully  consented  to  reside  with  them  during 
their  stay  in  Switzerland,  and  then  accompany  them  on  their 
intended  tour. 

The  strong  affection  Percy  bore  his  brother  rendered  him 
long  unable  to  regain  his  usual  mirth  and  flow  of  spirits,  and 
he  found  the  conversation  of  Louisa  Manvers  even  more  pleas- 
ing than  ever.  Mary  had  made  her  perfectly  acquainted  with 
Herbert,  and  therefore,  though  she  had  never  seen  him,  she  was 
well  enabled  to  enter  into  the  deep  affliction  the  loss  of  his  be- 
trothed must  have  occasioned  him.  Percy  could  speak  to  her 
as  often  as  he  pleased  of  his  brother  and  Mary,  and  ever  found 
sympathy  and  interest  attached  to  the  subject.  Thus  the  idea 
of  travelling  alone,  when  his  sister's  family  offered  sucii  attrac- 
tions, became  absolutely  irksome  to  him,  and  he  was  pleased  to 
see  that  his  plan  of  joining  them  was  not  disagreeable  to 
Miss  Manvers.  Mr.  Hamilton  sent  his  un  qualified  approval  of 
Percy's  intentions,  and  Herbert  also  wrote  sufficiently  of  him- 
self to  satisfy  the  anxious  affection  of  his  brother. 

There  was  only  one  disappointing  clause  in  Percy's  plans, 
and  he  regretted  it  himself,  and  even  hinted  that  if  his  sister 
still  very  much  wished  it,  he  would  give  up  his  intention,  and 
return  home  in  time  to  be  present,  as  he  had  promised,  at  her 
wedding.  He  wrote  in  his  usual  affectionate  strain  both  to 
Emmeline  and  Myrvin,  but  neither  was  selfish  enough  to  wish 
such  a  sacrifice. 

At  Herbert's  earnest  entreaty,  the  marriage  of  his  sister 
was,  however,  fixed  rather  earlier  than  she  had  intended.  It 
was  not,  he  said,  as  if  their  marriage  was  to  be  like  Caroline's 
•Mie  signal  for  a  long  cotirse  of  gayety  and  pleasure ;  that  Em- 
meline had  always  determined  on  only  her  own  family  being 
present,  and  every  thing  would  be  so  quiet,  he  was  sure  there 
could  be  no  necessity  for  a  longer  postponement. 

"  My  Mary  wished  to  have  beheld  your  union,"  his  lip  trem- 
bled as  he  spoke ;  "  had  not  her  illness  so  rapidly  increased, 
she  wished  to  have  been  present,  and  could  she  now  speak  her 
wishes,  it  would  be  to  bid  you  be  happy — no  longer  to  defer 
your  union  for  her  sake.  Do  not  defer  it,  dear  Emmeline,"  he 
added,  in  a  somewhat  sadder  tone,  "we  know  not  the  events  of 
an  hour,  and  wherefore  should  we  delay  ?  it  will  be  such  joy 
to  me  to  unite  my  friend  and  my  sister,  to  pour  forth  on  their 
»ovo  the  blessing  of  the  Lord." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE,  405 

There  was  something  so  inexpressibly  sweet  yet  mournful 
in  his  concluding  words,  that  Emmeline,  unable  to  restrain  the 
impulse,  leaned  upon  his  neck  and  wept. 

'•  Do  not  chide  my  weakness,  Herbert,"  she  tried  to  say, 
u  these  are  not  tears  of  unmingled  sadness ;  oh,  could  I  but 
Bee  you  happy." 

"And  you  will,  my  sweet  sister;  soon — very  soon,  I  shall 
be  happy,  quite — quite  happy,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  as  he 
fondly  kissed  her  brow. 

Emmeline  had  not  marked  the  tone  cf  his  concluding 
words,  she  nad  not  seen  the  expression  of  his  features ;  but 
Ellen  had,  and  a  cold  yet  indefinable  thrill  passed  through  her 
heart,  and  left  a  pang  behind,  which  she  could  not  COL  qucr  the 
whole  of  that  day.  She  understood  it  not,  for  she  would  not 
understand. 

Urged  on,  however,  a  few  days  afterwards,  during  a  walk 
with  Herbert,  she  asked  him  why  he  was  so  anxious  the  ceie- 
mony  should  take  place  without  delay. 

':  Because,  my  dear  Ellen,  I  look  forward  to  the  perform- 
ance of  this  ceremony  as  a  source  of  pleasure  which  I  could 
not  bear  to  resign  to  another." 

"  To  another,  Herbert ;  what  do  you  mean  1  Do  you  think 
of  following  my  uncle's  advice,  and  resigning  your  duties  for 
a  time,  for  the  purpose  of  travel  ?" 

"  No,  Ellen ;  those  duties  will  not  be  resigned  till  I  am 
called  way;  they  are  sources  of  enjoyment  and  consolation 
too  pure  to  be  given  up.  I  do  not  wish  my  sister's  wedding  to 
be  deferred,  for  I  know  not  how  soon  my  Saviour  may  call  me 
to  Himself/' 

';  May  we  not  all  urge  that  plea,  my  dear  cousin  ?"  said 
Ellen ;  "  and  yet  in  your  sermon  last  Sunday,  you  told  us  to 
do  all  things  soberly,  to  give  due  reflection  to  things  of  weight, 
particularly  those  in  which  temporal  and  eternal  interests 
were  united  ;  not  to  enter  rashly  and  hastily  into  engagements, 
not  too  quickly  to  put  off  the  garb  of  mourning,  and  plunge 
once  more  into  the  haunts  of  pleasure."  She  paused. 

'•  I  did  say  all  this,  Ellen,  I  own  ;  but  it  has  not  much  to  do 
with  our  present  subject.  Emmeline's  engagement  with  Ar- 
thur has  not  been  entered  on  rashly  or  in  haste.  She  does  not 
throw  off  the  garb  of  mourning  to  forget  the  serious  thoughts 
it  may  have  encouraged  ;  and  though  you  are  right,  we  none 
of  us  can  know  how  soon  we  may  be  called  away.  yet.  surely, 
it  behooves  those  unto  whom  the  dart  has  sped,  the  mandata 


406  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

been  given,  to  set  their  house  in  order,  for  tiiey  shall  surety 
die,  and  not  live  the  usual  period  of  mortals." 

'•  But  who  can  tell  this,  Herbert  ?  who  are  so  favored  as  to 
know  the  actual  moment  when  the  dart  has  sped,  and  how 
soon  it  will  reach  them  ?  Should  we  not  all  live  as  if  death 
were  near?" 

"  Undoubtedly,  we  should  so  order  our  souls,  as  ever  to  bo 
ready  to  render  them  back  to  Him  who  gave  them  ;  but  we 
cannot  always  so  arrange  our  worldly  matters,  as  we  should, 
did  we  know  the  actual  moment  of  death's  appearance ;  our 
business  may  require  constant  care  ;  we  may  have  dear  objects 
for  whom  it  is  our  duty  to  provide,  to  the  best  of  our  power, 
and  did  we  know  when  we  should  die,  these  things  would  .bse 
the  interest  they  demand.  Death  should,  indeed,  be  ever  pre- 
sent to  our  minds  ;  it  should  follow  us  in  our  joy  as  in  our  Bor- 
row, and  never  will  it  come  as  a  dark  and  gloomy  shadow  to 
those  who  in  truth  believe ;  but  wise  and  merciful  is  the  de- 
cree that  conceals  from  us  the  moment  of  our  departure. 
Were  the  gates  of  heaven  thus  visible,  how  tame  and  cold 
would  this  world  appear ;  how  few  would  be  the  ties  that  we 
should  form,  how  insignificant  would  seem  those  duties  which 
on  earth  we  are  commanded  ,to  perform  !  No.  to  prepare  our 
souls  to  be  ready  at  a  minute's  warning  to  return  to  their 
heavenly  home,  is  the  duty  of  all.  More  is  not  expected  from 
those  in  perfect  health ;  but,  Ellen,  when  a  mortal  disease  is 
consuming  this  earthly  tabernacle,  when,  though  Death  linger, 
he  is  already  seen,  ay,  and  even  felt  approaching,  then  should 
we  not  wind  up  our  worldly  affairs,  instead  of  wilfully  blinding 
our  eyes  to  the  truth,  as,  alas  !  too  many  do  ?  Then,  should 
we  not  '  watch  and  pray'  yet  more,  not  only  for  ourselves,  but 
those  dearest  to  us,  and  do  all  in  our  power  to  secure  their 
happiness,  ere  we  are  called  away?" 

Ellen  could  not  answer.  She  understood  too  well  his 
meaning ;  a  sickness  as  of  death  crept  over  her,  but  with  an 
effort  she  subdued  that  deadly  faintness ;  she  would  have 
spoken  on  other  things,  but  her  tongue  was  parched  and  dry. 

Engrossed  in  his  own  solemn  feelings,  in  the  wish  to  pre- 
pare his  cousin  for  the  truth,  Herbert  perceived  not  her  agita- 
tion, and,  after  a  minute's  pause,  continued  tenderly — 

"  My  own  cousin,  death  to  you  is.  I  know,  not  terrible ; 
why  then  should  I  hesitate  to  impart  tidings  which  to  me  are 
full  of  bliss  ?  The  shaft  which  bore  away  my  Mary,  also  en- 
tered my  heart,  and  implanted  in  me  the  disease  which  no 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  407 

mortal  skill  can  cure.  Do  not  chide  me  for  entertaining  an 
unfounded  fancy.  Ellen,  dear  Ellen,  I  look  to  you.  under 
heaven,  to  support  my  mother  under  this  affliction.  I  look  to 
your  fond  cares  to  subdue  the  pang  of  parting.  You  alone  of 
all  her  children  will  be  left  near  her,  and  you  can  do  much  to 
comfort  and  soothe  not  only  her,  but  my  father ;  they  will 
mourn  for  me,  nature  will  speak,  though  I#go  to  joy  inexpres- 
sible, unutterable  !  Ellen,  speak  to  me  ;  will  you  not  do  this, 
my  sister,  my  friend? 

'•Give me  but  a  moment,"  she  murmured  almost  inaudibly, 
as,  overpowered  by  increasing  faintness,  she  sunk  down  on  a 
grassy  bank  near  them,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
Minutes  rolled  by,  and  still  there  was  silence.  Herbert  sat 
down  beside  her,  threw  his  arm  around  her,  and  pressed  a 
brother's  kiss  upon  her  cold,  damp  brow.  She  started  and 
would  have  risen,  but  strength  failed ;  for  a  moment  her  head 
leaned  against  his  bosom,  and  a  burst  of  tears  relieved  her. 
"  Forgive  me  Herbert,"  she  said,  striving  at  once  for  compo- 
sure and  voice.  "  Oh,  weak  as  I  am,  do  not  repent  your  con- 
fidence. It  was  unexpected,  sudden  ;  the  idea  of  parting  was 
sharper  than  at  the  first  moment  I  could  bear,  but  it  will  soon 
be  over,  very,  very  soon ;  do  not  doubt  me,  Herbert."  She 
fixed  her  mournful  eyes  upon  his  face,  and  her  cheek  was  very 
pale.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  with  returning  strength,  "  trust  me, 
dear  Herbert,  I  will  be  to  my  aunt,  my  more  than  mother, 
ever  as  you  wish.  My  every  care,  my  every  energy  shall  be 
employed  to  soften  that  deep  anguish  which — "  She  could 
not  complete  the  sentence,  but  quickly  added,  "the  deep  debt 
of  gratitude  I  owe  her,  not  a  whole  life  can  repay.  Long 
have  I  felt  it  long  wished  to  devote  myself  to  her  and  to  my 
uncle,  and  this  charge  has  confirmed  me  in  my  resolution. 
Yes,  dearest  Herbert,  while  Ellen  lives,  never,  never  shall  my 
beloved  aunt  be  lonely." 

Herbert  understood  not  the  entire  signification  of  his 
cousin's  words ;  he  knew  not,  that  simple  as  they  were  to  his 
ears,  to  her  they  were  a  vow  sacred  and  irrevocable.  She 
knew  she  could  never,  never  love  another,  and  there  was  some- 
thing strangely  soothing  in  the  thought,  that  it  was  his  last 
request  that  consecrated  her  to  his  mother,  to  her  benefactress. 
To  feel  that,  in  endeavoring  to  repay  the  debt  of  gratitude  she 
owed,  she  could  associate  Herbert  intimately  with  her  every 
action,  so  to  perform  his  last  charge,  that  could  he  look  down 
from  heaven  it  would  be  to  bless  her. 


408  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Herbert  knew  not  the  intensity  of  Ellen's  feelings,  still 
less  did  he  imagine  he  was  the  object  of  her  ill-fated  affection. 
Never  once  had  such  a  suspicion  crossed  his  mind  ;  that  she 
loved  him  he  doubted  not,  but  he  thought  it  was  as  Emmeline 
loved.  He  trusted  in  her  strength  of  character,  and  therefore 
had  he  spoken  openly ;  and  could  Ellen  regret  his  confidence, 
when  she  found  that  after  that  painful  day,  her  society  ap- 
peared dearer,  more  consoling  to  him  than  ever  ? 

Although  some  members  of  her  family  could  not  be  pres- 
ent at  Emmeline's  wedding,  a  hasty  visit  from  Edward  was  a 
source  of  joy  to  all.  He  was  about  to  sail  to  the  shores  of 
Africa,  in  a  small  frigate,  in  which  he  had  been  promoted  to 
the  second  in  command,  an  honor  which  had  elevated  his 
spirits  even  beyond  their  usual  buoyancy.  He  had  been  much 
shocked  and  grieved  at  his  sister's  account  of  Mary's  death, 
and  Herbert's  deep  affliction  ;  but  after  he  had  been  at  home  a 
few  days,  the  influence  of  his  natural  light-heartedness  extended 
over  all,  and  rendered  Oakwood  more  cheerful  than  it  had  been 
since  the  melancholy  event  we  have  narrated. 

To  Lilla  Grahame  it  was  indeed  a  pleasure  to  revisit  Oak- 
wood,  particularly  when  Lieutenant  Fortescuewas  amongst  its 
inmates.  Edward's  manner  was  gallantly  courteous  to  all  his 
fair  friends ;  a  stranger  might  have  found  it  difficult  to  say 
which  was  his  favorite,  but  there  was  something  about  both 
him  and  Miss  Grahame  which  very  often  called  from  Ellen  a 
smile. 

It  was  an  interesting  group  assembled  in  the  old  parish 
church  on  the  day  that  united  our  favorite  Emmeline  with  her 
long-beloved  Arthur,  but  it  was  far  from  being  a  day  of  un- 
mingled  gladness.  Deep  and  chastened  as  was  the  individual 
and  mutual  happiness  of  the  young  couple,  they  could  neither 
of  them  forget  that  there  was  a  beloved  one  wanting ;  that  they 
had  once  hoped  the  same  day  that  beheld  their  nuptials  would 
have  witnessed  also  those  of  Herbert  and  his  Mary. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  looked  with  some  degree  cf 
dread  to  this  day,  as  one  of  painful  recollection  to  Herbert  ; 
but  he,  perhaps  of  all  who  were  around  him,  was  the  most  com- 
posed, and  as  the  impressive  ceremony  continued,  he  thought 
only  of  those  dear  ones  whose  fate  he  thus  united ;  he  felt 
only  the  solemn  import  of  the  prayers  he  said,  and  his  large 
and  beautiful  eyes  glistened  with  enthusiasm  as  in  former  days. 
It  would  have  been  a  sweet  group  for  a  skilful  painter,  those 
three  principal  figures  beside  the  altar.  Herbert,  as  we  hava 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  409 

described  him ;  Emmeline,  in  her  simple  garb  of  -white,  her 
slight  figure  and  peculiarly  feminine  expression  of  counte- 
nance causing  her  to  appear  very  many  years  younger  than  in 
reality  she  was ;  and  Arthur,  too,  his  manly  features  radiant 
with  chastened,  yet  perfect  happiness,  seemed  well  fitted  to  be 
the  protector,  the  friend  of  the  gentle  being  who  so  soon  would 
call  him  husband,  and  look  to  him  alone  for  happiness.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hamilton  rejoiced  that  their  beloved  child  was 
at  length  blessed  in  the  gratification  of  her  long-cherished, 
lorg-controlled  hopes  ;  that,  as  far  as  human  eye  coul  1  pene- 
trate, they  had  secured  her  happiness  by  giving  hei  to  the  man 
she  loved.  There  was  one  other  kneeling  beside  the  altar  on 
whom  Mrs.  Hamilton  looked  with  no  small  anxiety,  for  the 
emotion  she  perceived,  appeared  to  confirm  the  idea  that  it  was 
indeed  Arthur  Myrvin  who  had  engrossed  the  affections  of  her 
niece.  There  are  mysteries  in  the  human  heart,  for  which  we 
seek  in  vain  to  account ;  associations  and  sympathies  that  come 
often  uncalled-for  and  unwished.  Ellen  knew  not  wherefore 
the  sceue  she  witnessed  pressed  strangely  on  her  heart ;  she 
struggled  against  the  feeling,  and  she  might  perhaps  have  suc- 
ceeded in  concealing  her  inward  emotions,  but  suddenly  she 
looked  on  Herbert.  She  marked  him  radiant,  it  seemed,  in  health 
and  animation,  his  words  flashed  across  her  mind ;  soon  would 
the  hue  of  death  be  on  that  cheek,  the  light  of  that  eye  be 
dimmed,  that  sweet  and  thrilling  voice  be  hushed  on  earth  for 
ever ;  that  beautiful  form  bent  down  as  a  flower,  "  the  wind 
passeth  over  it  and  it  is  gone,  and  the  place  thereof  shall  know 
it  no  more ;"  and  thus  would  it  soon  be  with  him  she  loved. 
The  gush  of  feeling  mocked  all  her  efforts  at  control,  Ellen 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  her  slight  frame  shook,  and 
the  low  choking  sob  was  distinctly  heard  in  the  brief  silence 
that  followed  the  words,  "  Those  whom  God  hath  joined  let 
not  man  put  asunder." 

Arthur,  at  Emmeline's  own  desire,  conducted  his  bride  at 
once  to  the  small  yet  comfortable  home  which  had  been  pre- 
pared for  her  in  his  vicarage  on  Lord  St.  Eval's  estate.  That 
her  residence  was  so  near  them  was  a  great  source  of  pleasure 
tc  both  her  parents,  and  the  feeling  that  her  home  was  in  the 
centre  of  all  she  loved,  not  only  so  near  the  beloved  guardians 
cf  her  infancy  but  Caroline  and  St.  Eval,  would  have  added 
to  her  cup  of  joy,  had  it  not  been  already  full  to  overflowing ; 
the  pang  of  parting  was  thus  soothed  to  both  mother  and  child. 
Even  more  than  Caroline,  Mrs.  Hamilton  felt  she  should  mica 
18 


410  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

the  gentle  girl,  who  scarcely  from  her  infancy  had  given  lief 
one  moment's  pain  ;  but  in  the  happiness  of  her  child  she  too 
was  blessed,  and  thankfully  she  raised  her  voice  to  Him  whose 
blessing,  in  the  rearing  of  her  children,  she  had  so  constantly 
and  fervently  implored,  and  the  mother's  fond  and  yearning 
heart  was  comforted. 

Though  Ellen  had  smiled,  and  seemed  to  every  eye  but 
that  of  her  watchful  aunt  the  same  as  usual  the  whole  of  that 
day,  yet  Mrs.  Hamilton  could  not  resist  the  impulse  that  bade 
her  seek  her  when  all  had  retired  to  their  separate  apartment?. 
Ellen  had  been  gone  some  time,  but  she  was  sitting  in  a  pos- 
ture of  deep  thought,  in  which  she  had  sunk  on  firtt  entering 
her  room.  She  did  not  observe  her  aunt,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton 
traced  many  tears  slowly,  almost  one  by  one,  fall  upon  her 
tightly-clasped  hands,  ere  she  found  voice  to  speak. 

"  Ellen,  my  sweet  child  !" 

Ellen  sprung  up,  she  threw  herself  into  those  extended 
arms,  and  hid  her  tearful  eyes  on  her  aunt's  bosom. 

"  I  have  but  you  now.  my  own  Ellen,  to  cheer  my  old  age 
and  enliven  our  deserted  hearth.  You  must  not  leave  me  )'et; 
dearest.  I  cannot  part  with  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  no ;  I  will  never,  never  leave  you.  Your  home 
shall  be  my  home,  my  more  than  mother ;  and  where  you  go, 
Ellen  will  follow,"  she  murmured,  speaking  unconsciously  in 
the  spirit  of  one  of  the  sweetest  characters  the  Sacred  Book 
presents.  "Do  not  ask  me  to  leave  you;  indeed,  indeed,  no 
home  will  be  to  me  like  yours." 

"Speak  not,  then,  so  despondingly,  my  Ellen,"  replied 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  fondly  kissing  her.  "  Never  shall  you  leave 
me  without  your  own  full  and  free  consent.  Do  you  remem- 
ber, love,  when  I  first  promised  that  ?"  she  continued,  play- 
fully ;  for  she  sought  not  to  draw  from  Ellen  the  secret  of  hei 
love,  she  only  wished  to  soothe,  to  cheer,  to  tell  her,  howevei 
unrequited  might  be  her  affections,  still  she  was  not  desolate, 
and  when  she  left  her,  fully  had  she  succeeded.  Ellen  was 
comforted,  though  she  scarcely  knew  wherefore. 

Some  few  months  passed  after  the  marriage  of  Emmeline 
and  the  domestic  peace  of  Oakwood  yet  remained  undisturbed. 
There  were  times  when  Ellen  hoped  she  had  been  deceived, 
that  Herbert  had  been  deceived  himself.  But  Myrvin  dared 
not  hope;  he  was  not  with  his  friend  as  constantly  as  Ellea 
was,  and  almost  every  time  he  beheld  him  he  fancied  he  per* 
oeived  an  alarming  change. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  411 

A.bout  this  time  a  malignant  disease  broke  out  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Dart,  whose  awful  ravages  it  appeared  as 
if  no  medical  aid  was  adequate  to  stop.  In  Herbert  Hamilton's 
parish  the  mortality  was  dreadful,  and  his  duties  were  conse- 
quently increased,  painfully  to  himself  and  alarmingly  to  his 
family.  A  superhuman  strength  seemed,  however,  suddenly 
granted  him.  Whole  days,  frequently  whole  nights,  he  spent 
in  the  cottages  of  the  afflicted  poor ;  soothing,  encouraging, 
compelling  even  the  hardened  and  impenitent  to  own  the  po^cr 
of  the  religion  he  taught ;  bidding  even  them  bow  in  unfeigned 
penitence  at  the  footstool  of  their  Redeemer,  and  robbing 
death,  in  very  truth,  of  its  sting.  The  young,  the  old,  men  in 
their  prime,  were  carried  off.  The  terrible  destroyer  knew  no 
distinction  of  age  or  sex  or  rank.  Many  a  young  child  would 
cease  its  wailing  cry  of  suffering  when  its  beloved  pastor  en- 
tered the  lowly  cot,  and  with  the  fondness  of  a  parent,  with 
that  smile  of  pitying  love  which  few  hearts  can  resist,  would 
seek  to  soothe  the  bodily  anguish,  while  at  the  same  moment 
he  taught  the  young  soul  that  death  was  not  terrible ;  that  it 
was  but  a  few  moments  of  pain  to  end  in  everlasting  bliss; 
that  they  were  going  to  Him  who  had  said  "Suffer  little  chil- 
dren to  come  unto  me,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 
From  the  old.  Herbert  would  learn  many  a  lesson  of  piety  and 
resignation,  and  feel  that  attendance  on  such  beds  of  death  was 
in  truth  a  blessing  to  himself. 

Fearlessly,  for  her  trust  was  fixed  on  the  Rock  of  Right- 
eousness, did  Ellen  second  the  exertions  of  her  cousin  in  this 
time  of  general  affliction.  There  were  many  who  sought  to 
dete,r  her,  for  they  whispered  the  disease  was  contagious,  but 
Ellen  heeded  them  not,  nor  did  Mrs.  Hamilton,  herself  so 
active  in  seasons  ot  distress,  seek  to  dissuade  her.  "The  arm 
of  my  God  is  around  me.  alike  in  the  cottages  of  the  dying  as 
in  the  fancied  security  of  Oakwood,"  she  said  one  day  to  Her- 
bert, who  trembled  for  her  safety,  though  for  himself  no  fears 
had  ever  entered  his  mind.  "If  it  is  His  will  that  I  t  >o 
should  feel  His  chastening  rod.  it  will  find  me  though  1  should 
never  leave  my  home ;  my  trust  is  in  Him.  I  go  in  the  hum- 
ble hope  to  do  His  work,  and  He  will  net  forsake  me.  Herbert." 

Herbert  trembled  for  her  no  more,  and  an  active  and  judi- 
cious assistant  did  he  find  her.  For  six  weeks  the  disease 
continued  unabated  ;  about  that  time  it  began  to  decline,  and 
hopes  were  entertained  that  it  was  indeed  departing. 

There  was  moisture  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  minister,  as 


412  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

he  looked  around  him  one  Sabbath  evening  on  the  diminished 
number  of  his  congregation  ;  so  many  of  whom  were  either  clad 
in  mourning,  or  bore  on  their  countenances  the  marks  of  recent 
Buffering.  Over  the  last  victim  the  whole  family  at  Oak- 
wood  had  sincerely  mourned,  for  it  was  that  kind  old  woman 
whom  we  have  mentioned  more  than  once  as  being  connected 
with  the  affairs  we  have  related.  Nurse  Langford  had  gone 
to  her  last  home,  and  both  Ellen  and  Herbert  dreaded  writing 
the  intelligence  to  her  affectionate  son,  who  was  now  in  Percy's 
service.  She  had  been  buried  only  the  day  previous.  Her 
seat  was  exactly  opposite  the  pulpit,  where  "he  had  so  often 
said  it  was  such  a  blessing  to  look  on  the  face  of  her  dear  Mas- 
ter Herbert,  and  to  hear  such  blessed  truths  from  his  lips. 
She  now  was  gone.  Herbert  looked  on  her  vacant  seat,  and 
it  was  then  his  eyes  glistened  in  starting  tears.  He  had  seen 
his  cousin  look  towards  the  same  place,  and  though  her  veil 
was  closely  drawn  down,  he  felt,  her  tears  falling  fast  and  thick 
upon  her  book.  More  than  usually  eloquent  was  the  young 
clergyman  that  day,  in  the  discourse  he  had  selected  as  most 
appropriate  to  the  feelings  of  those  present.  He  spoke  of 
death,  and,  with  an  eloquence  affecting  in  its  pure  simplicity, 
he  alluded  to  the  loss  of  those  we  love.  "  Wherefore  should  I 
say  loss,  my  brethren?"  he  said  in  conclusion.  "  They  have 
but  departed  to  mansions  of  undying  joy :  to  earth  they  may 
be  lost,  but  not  to  us.  Oh,  no.  God  cursed  the  ground  for 
man's  sake — it  is  fading,  perishable !  There  will  be  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth,  but  the  spirit  which  God  breathed 
within  us  shall  not  see  corruption.  Released  from  this  earthly 
shell,  we  shall  again  behold  those  who  have  departed  first ; 
they  will  meet  us  rejoicing,  singing  aloud  the  praises  of  that 
unutterable  love  that  redeemed  and  saved  us,  removing  the 
curse  pronounced  on  man,  even  as  on  earth,  making  us  heirs 
of  eternal  life,  of  everlasting  glory !  My  brethren,  death  has 
been  amongst  us,  but  how  clothed  ?  To  us  who  remain,  perhaps 
for  a  time  in  sadness ;  but  to  those  who  have  triumphantly 
departed,  even  as  an  angel  of  light,  guiding  them  to  the  portals 
of  heaven.  Purified  by  suffering  and  repentance,  their  gar- 
ments white  as  snow,  they  encircle  the  throne  of  their  Saviour: 
and  those  whose  lives  below  were  those  of  toil  and  long  suffer- 
ing, a-re  now  among  the  blessed.  Shall  we  then  weep  for 
them,  my  friends?  Surely  not.  Let  us  think  of  them,  and 
follow  in  their  paths,  that  our  last  end  may  be  like  theirs,  that 
we  may  rejoin  them,  never  again  to  part ! 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  413 

"  Are  there  any  here  who  fear  to  die?  Are  there  any  who 
•shrink  and  tremble  when  they  think  they  may  be  the  next  ii 
may  please  the  Lord  to  call  ?  My  Christian  brethren,  think 
awhile,  and  such  thoughts  will  cease  to  appal  you.  To  the 
heathen  alone  is  death  the  evil  spirit,  the  blackening  shadow 
which,  when  called  to  mind,  will  poison  his  dearest  joys  '  To 
us,  brethren,  what  is  it  ?  In  pain  it  tells  us  of  ease ;  in  strife 
or  tumult,  that  the  grave  is  a  place  of  quiet ;  in  the  weariness 
of  exhausted  spirits,  that  the  end  of  all  these  things  is  at 
hand.  Who  ever  found  perfect  joy  on  earth  ?  Are  we  not 
restless,  even  in  the  mklst  of  happiness?  Death  tells  us  of  a 
purer  happiness,  in  which  there  is  no  weariness,  no  satiety. 
When  we  look  around  on  those  we  love,  when  we  feel  the 
blessings  of  affection,  death  tells  us  that  we  shall  love  them 
still  better  in  heaven  !  Is  death  then  so  terrible?  Oh,  jet  us 
think  on  it  thus  in  life  and  in  health,  and  in  the  solitude  and 
silence  of  our  chamber  such  thoughts  will  not  depart  from  us. 
Let  these  reflections  pervade  us  as  we  witness  the  dying  mo- 
ments of  those  we  love,  and  we  shall  find  even  for  us  death  has 
no  sting ;  for  we  shall  meet  again  in  a  world  where  death  and 
time  shall  be  no  more  !  Oh,  my  beloved  brethren,  let  us  go 
home,  and  in  our  closets  thank  God  that  His  chastening  hand 
appears  about  to  be  removed  from  us,  and  so  beseech  Him  to 
enlighten  our  eyes  to  look  on  death,  that  >  so  to  give  us  that 
faith,  which  alone  can  make  us  whole,  and  give  us  peace,  that 
we  may  say  with  the  venerable  Simeon,  '  Lord,  now  lettest 
thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  for  mine  eyes  have  seen  thy 
salvation.'  " 

He  ceased,  and  a  solemn  stillness  reigned  within  tho 
church.  For  a  moment  the  young  clergyman  bowed  his  head 
in  silent  prayer  upon  his  book,  and  then  he  raised  his  clasped 
hands  on  high,  aiid,  in  a  voice  of  almost  unearthly  sweetness 
and  power,  gave  the  parting  benediction.  The  flush  was  ob- 
served to  fade  from  his  cheek,  the  lustre  depart  from  his  eye ; 
he  raised  his  hand  languidly  to  his  damp  brow,  and  in  another 
minute  Mr.  Hamilton  darted  from  his  seat,  and  received  his 
son  in  his  arms,  in  a  long  and  deathlike  swoon.  That  same 
evening  beheld  Herbert  Hamilton,  the  beloved,  the  good, 
stretched  on  his  couch  a  victim  to  the  same  fearful  disease,  to 
remove  the  sting  of  which  he  had  so  long  and  perseveringly 
labored. 


414  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THERE  was  joy  in  the  superb  hotel  at  Frankfort-sur-Muina 
which  served  as  the  temporary  residence  of  Lord  St.  Eval's 
family,  domestic  joy,  for  the  danger  which  had  threatened  the 
young  countess  in  her  confinement  had  passed  away,  and  she 
and  her  beautiful  babe  were  doing  as  well  as  the  fond  heart  of  a 
father  and  husband  could  desire.  They  had  been  at  Frankfort 
for  the  last  two  months,  at  which  place,  however,  Percy  Hamil- 
ton had  not  been  stationary,  taking  adrantage  of  this  pause  in 
St.  Eval's  intended  plans,  by  seeing  as  much  of  Germany  as 
he  could  during  that  time;  and  short  as  it  was,  his  energetic 
mind  had  derived  more  improvement  and  pleasure  in  the  places 
he  had  visited,  than  many  who  had  lingered  over  the  same 
space  of  ground  more  than  "double  the  time.  Intelligence 
that  Caroline  was  not  quite  so  well  as  her  friends  wished, 
aided  perhaps  by  his  secret  desire  to  see  again  her  gentle  com- 
panion, Percy  determined  for  a  short  time  to  return  to  Frank- 
fort, till  his  sister's  health  was  perfectly  restored,  and  they  might 
be  again  enabled  to  travel  together.  His  almost  unexpected 
arrival  added  to  the  happiness  of  the  young  Earl's  domestic 
circle,  and  there  was  somewhat  in  his  arch  yet  expressive 
glance,  as  he  received  his  baby  niece  from  the  arms  of  Miss 
Manvers.  and  imprinted  a  light  kiss  on  the  infant's  sleeping 
features,  that  dyed  her  cheek  with  blushes,  and  bade  her  heart 
beat  quick  with  an  indefinable  sense  of  pleasure. 

The  sisterly  friendship  of  Louisa  Manvers  had  been  a  source 
of  real  gratification  to  both  the  Earl  St.  Eval  and  his  Countess 
during  their  travels,  more  particularly  now,  when  the  health 
iOf  the  latter  required  such  kindlj  tending.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
had  deeply  regretted  the  impossibility  of  her  being  with  her 
child  at  such  a  time ;  the  letter  Lord  St.  Eval  had  despatched 
was,  however,  calculated  to  disperse  all  her  anxiety,  the 
danger  appearing  after  the  letter  had  gone,  and  not  lasting 
sufficiently  long  to  justify  his  writing  again.  They  were  sit- 
ting round  the  breakfast  table  the  morning  after  Percy's  re- 
turn, lengthening  the  usual  time  of  the  meal  by  lively  and 
intelligent  conversation  ;  Miss  Manvers  was  presiding  at  the 
table,  and  Percy  did  not  feel  the  least  inclined  to  move,  de- 
claring he  would  wait  for  his  English  despatches,  if  there  were 
any,  before  he  went  out.  The  post  happened  to  be  rather  late 
that  morning,  a  circumstance,  wonderful  to  say,  which  did  not 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  415 

occasion  Percy  annoyance.  It  came  in,  however,  at  length, 
bringing  several  pnpors  for  Lord  St.  Eval  and  his  wife,  from 
the  Malvern  family,  but  only  two  from  Oak-wood,  one,  in  the 
handwriting  of  Ellen,  to  Percy,  and  one  for  Hobort  Langford, 
evidently  from  Mr.  Hamilton. 

ki  This  is  most  extraordinary/'  Percy  said,  much  surprised. 
•'  My  mother  not  written  to  Caroline,  and  none  from  Herbert 
to  me ;  his  duties  are  increased.  I  know,  but  surely  he  could 
find  time  to  write  to  me." 

••  Mrs.  Hamilton  has  written  to  Caroline  since  her  confine- 
ment, and  so  did  all  her  family  four  or  five  days  ago."  said 
Lord  St.  Eval,  but  his  words  fell  unheeded  on  the  ear  of  Percy, 
who  had  hastily  torn  open  his  cousin's  letter,  and  glanced  his 
eye  over  its  contents.  Engaged  in  his  own  letters,  the  Earl 
did  not  observe  the  agitation  of  his  friend,  but  Miss  Manvers 
saw  his  hand  tremble  so  violently,  that  he  could  scarcely  hold 
the  paper. 

-  Merciful  heaven  !  Mr.  Hamilton — Percy,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter ?"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly  losing  all  her  wonted  reserve, 
as  she  remarked  his  strange  emotion,  and  her  words,  connected 
with  the  low  groan  that  burst  from  Percy's  heart,  effectually 
roused  the  Earl's  attention. 

':  Hamilton,  speak  ;  are  there  ill  news  from  Oakwood  ?  In 
mercy  speak  ! "  he  said,  almost  as  much  agitated  as  his  friend. 

"  Herbert,"  was  all  Percy  could  articulate,  "  Herbert,  my 
brother :  oh,  God,  he  is  dying,  and  I  am  not  near  him.  Read, 
St.  Eval,  for  pity;  I  cannot  see  the  words.  Is  there  yet  time 
— can  I  reach  England  in  time?  or  is  this  only  a  preparation 
to  tell  me  he  is  dead?" 

"He  lives,  Percy;  there  may  be  yet  time,  if  you  set  off  ai 
once,"  exclaimed  the  Earl,  who  saw  the  necessity  of  rousing 
his  friend  to  exertion,  for  the  sudden  blow  had  bewildered  his 
every  faculty.  He  stated  up  wildly,  and  was  darting  from 
the  room,  when  he  suddenly  paused — 

'•  Keep  it  from  Caroline — tell  her  not  now,  it  will  kill  her," 
he  cried.  "  May  God  in  heaven  bless  you  for  those  tears  !"  he 
continued,  springing  towards  Louisa,  and  clasping  her  hands 
convulsively  in  his,  as  the  sight  of  her  unfeigned  emotion 
caused  the  hot  tears  slowly  to  trickle  down  his  own  cheek,  and 
his  lip  quivered,  till  he  could  scarcely  speak  the  words  of  part- 
ing. '•  Oh.  think  of  me  ;  I  go  to  the  dying  bed  of  him.  whom 
I  had  hoped  would  one  day  have  been  to  you  a  brother — would 
have  joined — "  He  paused  in  overwhelming  emotion,  took  the 


416  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

hand  of  the  trembling  girl,  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  darted 
from  the  apartment. 

St.  Eval  hastily  followed  him.  for  he  saw  Percy  was  in  no 
state  to  think  of  any  thing  himself,  and  the  letter  Robert  had 
received,  telling  him  of  the  death  of  his  mother,  rendered  him 
almost  as  incapable  of  exertion  as  his  master;  but  as  soon  as 
he  heard  the  cause  of  Percy's  very  visible  but  at  first  in- 
comprehensible agitation,  his  own  deep  affliction  was  at  once 
subdued  ;  he  was  ready  and  active  in  Percy's  service.  That 
Mr.  Hamilton  should  thus  have  written  to  him.  to  alleviate 
the  blow  of  a  parent's  death,  to  comfort  him  when  his  own  son 
lay  on  a  dying  bed,  penetrated  at  once  the  heart  of  the  young 
man.  and  urged  him  to  exertion. 

Day  and  night  Percy  travelled  ;  but  we  must  outstrip  even 
his  rapid  course,  and  conduct  our  readers  to  Oakwood.  the 
evening  of  the  second  day  after  Percy's  arrival  at  Ostend. 

Herbert  Hamilton  lay  on  his  couch,  the  cold  hand  of  Death 
upon  his  brow ;  but  instead  of  robing  his  features  with  a 
ghastly  hue.  it  had  spread  over  them  even  more  than  usual 
beauty.  Reduced  he  was  to  a  mere  shadow,  but  his  prayers 
in  his  days  of  health  and  life  had  been  heard  ;  the  delirium  of 
fever  had  passed,  and  he  met  death  unshrinkingly,  his  mind 
retaining  even  more  than  its  wonted  powers.  It  was  the  Sab- 
bath evening,  and  all  around  him  was  still  and  calm.  For  the 
first  two  days  after  the  delirium  had  departed,  his  mind  had 
still  been  darkened,  restless,  and  uneasy.  Persevcringly  as  he 
had  labored  in  his  calling,  he  had  felt  in  those  darker  days  the 
uttei  nothingness  of  his  own  works,  how  wholly  insufficient 
they  had  been  to  secure  his  salvation  ;  and  the  love  of  his  God, 
the  infinite  atonement  in  which  he  so  steadily  believed,  shone 
uot  with  sufficient  brightness  to  remove  this  painful  darkness. 
Death  was  very  nea*\  and  it  no  longer  seemed  the  angel  of  light 
ho  had  ever  regarded  it ;  but  on  the  Saturday  the  mist  was 
mercifully  dispelled  from  his  mind,  the  clouds  dispersed,  and 
faith  shone  forth  with  a  brilliancy,  a  lustre  overpowering ;  it 
told  of  heaven  with  an  eloquence  that  banished  every  other 
thought,  and  Herbert's  bodily  sufferings  were  felt  no  longer; 
the  confines  of  heaven  were  gained — but  a  brief  space,  one 
mortal  struggle,  and  he  would  meet  his  Mary  at  the  footstool 
of  his  God. 

With  solemn  impressiveness,  yet  affecting  tenderness,  Arch- 
deacon Howard  had  administered  the  sacrament  to  him,  whom 
he  regarded  at  once  as  pupil,  friend,  and  brother-  and  the 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  417 

whole  family  of  the  dying  youth,  at  his  own  particular  request, 
had  shared  it  with  him.  Exhausted  by  the  earnestness  in 
which  he  had  joined  in  the  solemn  service,  Herbert  xiow  lay 
with  one  hand  clasped  in  his  mother's,  who  sat  by  his  side,  her 
head  bent  over  his,  and  her  whole  countenance,  save  when  the 
gaze  of  her  son  was  turned  towards  her,  expressive  of  tearless, 
heart-rending  sorrow,  struggling  for  resignation  to  the  will  of 
Him,  who  called  her  Herbert  to  Himself.  Emmeline  was 
kneeling  by  her  mother's  "side.  Mr.  Hamilton  leaned  against 
the  wall,  pale  and  still ;  it  was  only  the  agonized  expression  of 
his  manly  features  that  betrayed  he  was  a  living  being.  On 
the  left  side  of  the  dying  youth,  stood  Arthur  Myrvin,  who, 
from  the  moment  of  his  arrival  at  Oakwood,  had  never  once 
left  Herbert's  couch,  night  and  day  he  remained  beside  him ; 
and  near  Arthur,  but  yet  closer  to  her  cousin,  knelt  the  or- 
phan, her  eyes  tearless  indeed,  but  her  whole  countenance  so 
haggard  and  wan,  that  had  not  all  been  engrossed  in  individual 
suffering,  it  could  not  have  passed  unobserved.  The  tall,  ven- 
erable figure  of  the  Archdeacon,  as  he  stood  a  little  aloof  from 
the  principal  figures,  completed  the  painful  group. 

"  My  own  mother,  your  Herbert  is  so  happy,  so  very  happy  ! 
you  must  not  weep  for  me,  mother.  Oh,  it  is  your  fostering 
love  and  care,  the  remembrance  of  all  your  tenderness  from 
my  infancy,  gilding  my  boyhood  with  sunshine,  my  manhood 
with  such  refreshing  rays — it  is  that  which  is  resting  on  my 
heart,  and  I  would  give  it  words,  and  thank  and  bless  you,  but  I 
cannot.  And  my  father,  too,  my  beloved,  my  revered  father — 
oh  but  little  have  I  done  to  repay  your  tender  care,  my  bro- 
ther and  sister's  love,  but  my  Father  in  heaven  will  bless— 
bless  you  all ;  I  know,  I  feel  He  will." 

"  Perc},"  repeated  the  dying  youth,  a  gleam  of  light  kin- 
dling in  his  eye  and  flushing  his  cheek.  "  Is  there  indeed  a 
hope  that  I  may  see  him,  that  I  may  trace  those  beloved  fea- 
tures once  again  ?" 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  moved  in  silent  yet  fervent ^ 
prayer ;  that  wish  was  still  powerful  within  ;  it  was  the  only 
thought  of  earth  that  lingered. 

'•  Tell  him,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  sounded  weaker  and 
weaker,  "  tell  him,  Herbert's  last  prayer  was  for  him,  that  he 
was  in  my  last  thoughts  ;  tell  him  to  seek  comfort  at  tho 
foot  of  that  Throne  where  we  have  so  often  knelt  to- 
gether. Oh,  let  him  not  sorrow,  for  I  shall  be  happy — oh, 
BO  happy  !" 

18* 


413  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOrfTENSE. 

Again  he  was  silent,  and  for  a  much  longer  inter 
val;  but  when  he  reopened  his  eyes,  they  were  fixed  on 
Ellen. 

"  My  sister,  my  kind  and  tender  nurse,  what  shall  I  say  to 
you  ?"  he  said,  languidly,  but  in  a  tone  that  thrilled  to  her 
aching  heart.  "  I  can  but  commend  you  to  His  care,  who  can 
take  from  grief  its  sting,  even  as  He  hath  clothed  this  moment 
in  victory.  May  his  Spirit  rest  upon  you.  Ellen,  and  give  you 
peace.  May  he  bless  you,  not  only  for  your  affectionate  kind- 
ness towards  me,  but  to  her  who  went  before  me.  You  will 
not  forget,  Ellen."  His  glance  wandered  from  his  cousin  to 
his  mother,  and  then  returned  to  her.  She  bowed  her  head 
upon  his  extended  hand,  but  her  choking  voice  could  speak  no 
word. 

Caroline,  too,  she  will  weep  for  me,  but  St.  Eval  will  dry 
her  tears  ;  tell  them  I  did  not  forget  them ;  that  my  love  and 
blessing  is  theirs  even  as  if  they  had  been  around  me.  Einme- 
line,  Arthur, — Mr.  Howard,  oh,  where  are  you?  my  eyes  are 
dim,  my  voice  is  failing,  yet " — 

"I  am  here,  my  beloved  son,"  said  the  Archdea«on,  and 
Herbert  fixed  a  kind  glance  upon  his  face,  and  leaned  his  head 
against  him. 

"  I  would  tell  you,  that  it  is  the  sense  of  the  Divine  pres- 
ence, of  love,  unutterable,  infinite,  inexhaustible,  that  has 
taken  all  anguish  from  this  moment.  My  spirit  rises  tri- 
umphant, secure  of  eternal  salvation,  triumphing  in  the  love 
of  Him  who  died  for  me.  Oh,  Death,  well  may  I  say,  where 
is  thy  sting  ?  oh,  grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ?  they  arc 
passed ;  heaven  is  opening.  Oh,  bliss  unutterable,  un- 
dying !"  He  sunk  back  utterly  exhausted,  but  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  still  evinced  the  internal  triumph 
of  his  soul. 

"  A  faint  sound,  as  of  the  distant  trampling  of  horse.",  sud- 
denly came  upon  the  ear.  Nearer,  nearer  still,  and  a  flush  of 
excitement  rose  to  Herbert's  cheek.  "  Percy — can  it  be  ?  My 
God,  I  thank  thee  for  this  mercy  !" 

Arthur  darted  from  the  room,  as  the  sound  appeared 
rapidly  approaching ;  evidently  it  was  a  horse  urged  to  its 
utmost  speed,  and  it  could  be  none  other  save  Percy.  Arthur 
flew  across  the  hall,  and  through  the  entrance,  which  had 
been  flung  widely  open,  as  the  figure  of  the  young  heir  of 
Oakwood  had  been  recognized  by  the  streaming  eyes  of  the 
faithful  Morris,  who  stood  by  his  young  master's  stirrup,  but 


THE    MOTHER'S    RECOMPENSE.  419 

Without  uttering  a  word.  Percy's  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  cf 
his  mouth  ;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  haggard.  He  had  no 
power  to  ask  a  question,  and  it  was  only  the  appearance  of 
Myrvin,  his  entreaty  that  he  would  be  calm  ere  Herbert  saw 
him.  that  roused  him  to  exertion.  His  brother  yet  lived;  it 
was  enough,  and  in.another  minute  he  stood  on  the  threshold 
of  Herbert's  room.  With  an  overpowering  effost  the  dying 
youth  raised  himself  on  his  couch,  and  extended  his  arms 
towards  him. 

••  Percy,  my  own  Percy,  this  is  kind,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  suddenly  regained  its  wonted  power.  Percy  sprung 
towards  him,  and  the  brothers  were  clasped  in  each  other's 
arms.  No  word  did  Percy  speak,  but  his  choking  sobs  were 
heard  ;  there  was  no  movement  in  the  drooping  form  of 
his  brother  to  say  that  he  had  heard  the  sound  ;  he  did  not 
raise  his  head  from  Percy's  shoulder,  or  seek  to  speak  of 
comfort. 

41  Speak  to  me,  oh,  once  again,  but  once  more,  Herbert !" 
exclaimed  Percy.  Fearful  agony  was  in  his  voice,  but,  i.h,  it 
could  not  rouse  the  dead:  Herbert  Hamilton  had  departed. 
His  last  wish  on  earth  was  fulfilled.  It  was  but  the  lifeless 
form  of  his  beloved  brother  that  Percy  held  in  the  stern  grasp 
of  despairing  woe.  It  was  long  ere  the  truth  was  known,  and 
when  it  was,  there  was  no  sound  of  wailing  heard  within  the 
chamber,  no  cry  of  sorrow  broke  the  solemn  stillness.  For 
him  they  could  not  weep,  and  for  themselves,  oh,  it  was  a  grief 

too  deep  for  tears. 

****** 

We  will  not  linger  on  the  first  few  weeks  that  passed  over 
the  inmates  of  Oakwood  after  the  death  of  one  we  have  fol- 
lowed so  long,  and  beheld  so  fondly  and  deservedly  beloved. 
Silent  and  profound  was  that  sorrow,  but  it  was  the  sorrow  of 
those  who,  in  all  things,  both  great  and  small,  beheld  the  hand 
of  a  God  of  love.  Could  the  faith,  the  truth,  which  from  her 
girlhood's  years  had  distinguished  Mrs.  Hamilton,  desert  her 
now?  Would  her  husband  permit  her  to  look  to  him  for 
support  and  consolation  under  this  deep  affliction,  and  yet  not 
find  it?  No;  they  looked  up  to  their  God;  they  rejoiced  that 
so  peaceful,  so  blessed  had  been  the  death  of  their  beloved  one. 
His  last  words  to  them  came  again  and  again  on  the  heart  of 
each  parent  as  soothing  balm,  of  which  nor  time  nor  circum- 
stance could  deprive  them.  For  the  sake  of  each  other,  they 
ex«.-rted  themselves,  an  example  followed  by  their  children ;  but 


420  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

each  felt  years  must  pass  ere  the  loss  they  had  sustained  would 
lose  its  pang,  ere  they  could  cease  to  miss  the  being  they  had 
so  dearly  loved,  wlio  had  been  such  a  brilliant  light  in  their 
domestic  circle — brilliant,  yet  how  gentle ;  not  one  that  was 
ever  sparkling,  ever  changing,  but  of  a  soft  and  steady  lustre. 
On  earth  that  light  had  set,  but  in  heaven  it  was  dawning 
never  to  set  again. 

For  some  few  weeks  the  family  remained  all  together,  as 
far  at  least  as  Arthur's  ministerial  duties  permitted.  Mr. 
Hamilton  wished  much  to  see  that  living,  now  vacant  by  the 
death  of  his  son.  transferred  to  Myrvin.  and  he  exerted  himself 
towards  effecting  an  exchange.  Ere.  however,  Percy  could  re- 
turn to  the  Continent,  or  Emmeline  return  to  her  husband's 
home,  the  sudden  and  alarming  illness  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  de- 
tained them  both  at  Oakwood.  The  fever  which  had  been 
raging  in  the  village,  and  which  had  hastened  the  death  of 
Herbert,  had  also  entered  the  household  of  Mrs.  Hamilton.  Re- 
solved that  no  affliction  of  her  own  should  interfere  with  those 
duties  of  benevolence  to  exercise  which  was  her  constant  prac- 
tice, Mrs.  Hamilton  had  compelled  herself  to  exertion  beyond 
the  strength  of  a  frame  already  wearied  and  exhausted  by  long- 
continued  but  forcibly-suppressed  anxiety,  and  three  weeks  after 
the  death  of  her  son,  she  too  was  stretched  on  a  bed  of  suffer- 
ing, which,  for  the  first  few  days  d.uring  the  violence  of  the 
fever,  her  afflicted  family  believed  might  also  be  of  death.  In 
this  trying  time,  it  was  to  Ellen  that  not  only  her  cousins  but 
even  her  uncle  turned,  by  her  example  to  obtain  more  control 
and  strength.  No  persuasions  could  induce  her  to  leave  the 
side  of  her  aunt's  couch,  or  resign  to  another  the  painful  yet 
soothing  task  of  nursing.  Young  and  inexperienced  she  was. 
but  her  strong  affection  for  her  aunt,  heightened  by  some  other 
feeling  which  was  hidden  in  her  own  breast,  endowed  her  at 
once  with  strength  to  endure  continued  fatigue,  with  an  expe- 
rience that  often  made  Mr.  Maitland  contemplate  her  with  as- 
tonishment. From  the  period  of  Herbert's  death,  Ellen  had 
placed  her  feelings  under  a  restraint  that  utterly  prevented  all 
relief  in  tears.  She  was  never  seen  to  weep ;  every  feature 
had  indeed  spoken  the  deep  affliction  that  was  hers,  but  it 
never  interfered  with  the  devoted  care  she  manifested  towards 
her  aunt.  Silently  yet  perseveringly  she  labored  to  soften  the 
intense  suffering  in  the  mother's  heart;  it  was  on  her  neck 
Mrs.  Hamilton  had  first  wept  freely  and  relievingly,  and  aa 
she  clasped  the  orphan  to  her  bosom,  had  lifted  up  her  hear! 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  421 

in  thanksgiving  that  such  a  precious  gift  was  yet  preserved 
her.  how  little  did  even  she  imagine  all  that  was  passing  in 
Ellen's  heart;  that  Herbert  to  her  young  fancy  had  been  how 
much  dearer  than  a  brother ;  that  she  mourned  not  only  a 
cousin's  loss,  but  one  round  whom  her  first  affections  had  been 
twined  with  an  intensity  that  death  alone  could  sever.  How 
little  could  she  guess  the  continued  struggle  pressing  on  that 
young  mind,  the  anguish  of  her  solitary  moments,  ere  she 
could  by  prayer  so  calm  her  bursting  heart  as  to  appear  the 
composed  and  tranquil  being  she  ever  seemed  before  the  family. 
Mrs.  Hamilton  could  only  feel  that  the  comfort  her  niece  be- 
stowed in  this  hour  of  affliction,  her  controlled  yet  sympathiz- 
ing conduct,  repaid  her  for  all  the  care  and  sorrow  Ellen  once 
had  caused.  Never  had  she  regretted  she  had  taken  the 
orphans  to  her  heart  and  cherished  them  as  her  own ;  but  now 
it  was  she  felt  the  Lord  had  indeed  returned  the  blessing  ten- 
fold in  her  own  bosom ;  and  still  more  did  she  feel  this  in  the 
long  and  painful  convalescence  that  followed  her  brief  but 
severe  attack  of  fever,  when  Ellen  was  the  only  one  of  her 
children  remaining  near  her. 

Completely  worn  out  by  previous  anxiety,  the -subsequent 
affliction,  and,  finally,  her  mother's  dangerous  illness,  E mine- 
line's  health  appeared  so  shattered,  that  as  soon  as  the  actual 
danger  was  passed,  Myrvin  insisted  on  her  going  with  him.  for 
change  of  air  and  scene,  to  Llangwillan,  a  proposal  that  both 
her  father  and  Mr.  Maitland  seconded ;  trembling  for  the  pre- 
cious girl  so  lately  made  his  own.  Arthur  resisted  her  entreaties 
to  remain  r  little  longer  at  Oakwood,  and  conveyed  her  at  once 
to  his  father's  vicarage,  where  time  and  improved  tidings  of 
her  mother,  restored  at  length  the  bloom  to  her  cheek  and  tbe 
smile  fo  her  lip. 

It  was  strange  to  observe  the  difference  of  character  which 
opposite  circumstances  and  opposite  treatment  in  their  infant 
years  had  made  in  these  two  cousins.  Emmelirfe  and  Ellen, 
had  tliey  been  brought  up  from  babes  together,  and  the  same 
discipline  extended  to  each,  would,  in  all  probabilitj',  have  in 
after  years  displayed  precisely  the  same  disposition ;  but 
though  weak  indulgence  had  never  been  extended  to  Etmue- 
line,  prosperity  unalloyed,  save  in  the  affair  with  Arthur 
Myrvin,  had  been  her  portion.  Affection  and  caresses  bad 
been  ever  lavished  almost  unconsciously  upon  her,  but  instead 
of  cherishing  faults,  such  treatment  had  formed  her  happiness, 
iind  had  encouraged  and  led  her  on  in  the  paths  of  virtua 


422  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Every  thought  and  feeling  were  expressed  without  disguise 
she  had  been  so  accustomed  to  think  aloud  to  her  mother  from 
childhood,  so  accustomed  to  give  vent  to  her  little  vexationa 
in  words,  her  sorrows  in  tears,  which  were  quickly  dried,  that 
as  years  increased,  she  found  it  a  very  difficult  task  either  to 
restrain  her  sentiments  or  control  her  feelings.  Her  mind 
could  not  be  called  weak,  for  in  her  affection  for  Arthur 
Myrvin,  as  we  have  seen,  when  there  was  a  peremptory  call  for 
exertion  or  self-control,  it  was  ever  heard  and  attended  to 
Her  health  indeed  suffered,  but  that  very  fact  proved  the  mind 
was  stronger  than  the  frame ;  though  when  she  marked  Ellen's 
superior  composure  and  coolness,  Kmmeline  would  sometimes 
bitterly  reproach  herself.  From  her  birth,  Ellen  had  been 
initiated  in  sorrow,  her  infant  years  had  been  one  scene  of  trial. 
Never  caressed  by  her  mother  or  those  around  her,  save  when 
her  poor  father  was  near,  she  had  learned  to  bury  every  affec- 
tionate yearning  deep-within  her  own  little  heart,  every  childish 
sentiment  was  carefully  concealed,  and  her  father's  death,  the 
horrors  of  that  night,  appeared  to  have  placed  the  seal  on  her 
character,  infant  as  she  was.  She  was  scarcely  ten  when  she 
became  an  inmate  of  her  aunt's  family,  but  then  it  was  too  late 
for  her  character  to  become  as  Emmeline:s.  The  impression 
had  been  made  on  the  yielding  wax,  and  now  it  could  not  be 
effaced.  Many  circumstances  contributed  to  strengthen  this 
impression,  as  in  the  first  portion  of  this  history  we  have  seen. 
Adversity  had  made  Ellen  as  she  was,  and  self-control  had  be- 
come her  second  nature,  long  before  she  knew  the  meaning  of 
the  word. 

The  intelligence  of  Herbert's  death,  though  deferred  till 
St.  Eval  thought  his  wife  enabled  to  bear  it  with  some  com- 
posure, had,  however,  so  completely  thrown  her  back,  that  she 
was  quite  unequal  to  travel  to  England,  as  her  wishes  had 
instantly  dictated,  and  her  husband  was  compelled  to  keep  up 
a  constant  system  of  deception  with  regard  to  her  mother's 
illness,  lest  she  should  insist,  weak  as  she  was,  on  immediately 
flying  to  her  aid.  As  ?oon  as  sufficient  strength  returned  for 
Mrs.  Hamilton  to  express  he"  wishes,  she  entreated  Percy  to 
rejoin  his  sistei,  that  all  alarm  on  her  account  might  subside. 
The  thought  of  her  child  was  still  uppermost  in  the  mothers 
mind,  though  her  excessive  debility  compelled  her  to  lie 
motionless  for  hours  on  her  couch,  scarcely  sensible  of  any 
thing  passing  around  her,  or  that  her  husband  and  Ellen  hardly 
for  one  moment  left  her  side.  The  plan  succeeded.  Caroline1 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  443 

recovered  soon  after  Percy's  arrival ;  and  at  the  earnest  mes- 
sage Percy  bore  her  from  her  mother,  that  she  would  not  think 
of  returning  to  England  till  her  health  was  quit"  restored,  she 
consented  leisurely  to  take'the  celebrated  excursion  down  the 
Rhine,  ere  she  returned  home. 

It  would  have  seemed  as  though  no  other  grief  could  bo 
the  portion  of  Ellen,  but  another  sorrow  was  impending  over 
her.  which,  while  it  lasted,  was  a  source  of  distress  inferior 
only  to  Herbert's  death.  Entering  the  library  one  morning, 
she  was  rather  surprised  to  find  not  only  Mr.  Maitland  bu: 
Archdeacon  Howard  with  her  uncle. 

The  former  was  now  too  constantly  a  visitor  At  the  Hall  to 
occasion  individually  much  surprise,  but  it  was  the  expression 
on  the  countenances  of  each  that  created  alarm.  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton appeared  struggling  with  some  strong  and  painful  emotion, 
and  had  started  as  Ellen  entered  the  room,  while  he  looked 
imploringly  towards  the  Archdeacon,  as  if  seeking  his  counsel 
and  assistance. 

"  Can  we  indeed  trust  her  ?"  Mr.  Maitland  said,  doubt- 
ingly,  and  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  looked  sadly  upon  Ellen.  "  Can 
we  be  sure  these  melancholy  tidings  will  be  for  the  present  in- 
violably kept  from  Mrs.  Hamilton,  for  suspense  such  as  this, 
in  her  present  state  of  health,  might  produce  consequences  on 
which  I  tremble  to  think1?" 

"  You  may  depend  upon  me,  Mr.  Maitland,"  Ellen  said, 
firmly,  as  she  came  forward.  "  What  new  affliction  can  have 
happened  of  which  you  so  dread  my  aunt  being  informed?  Ohj 
do  not  deceive  me.  I  have  heard  enough  to  make  fancy  per- 
haps more  dreadful  than  reality.  Mr.  Howard.  My  dear  uncle, 
will  you  not  trust  me?" 

'•My  poor  F.llen,"  her  uncle  said,  in  a  faltering  voice, 
"  you  have  indeed  borne  sorrow  well ;  but  this  will  demand 
even  a  greater  share  of  fortitude.  All  is  not  yet  known,  there 
may  be  hope,  but  I  dare  not  encourage  it.  Tell  her,  Howard." 
he  added,  hastily  shrinking  from  her  sorrowful  glance,  "  I 
cannot." 

"  Is  it  of  Edward  you  would  tell  me  ?  Oh,  what  of  him  ?' 
she  exclaimed.  '•  Oh,  tell  me  at  once,  Mr.  Howard,  indeed, 
indeed,  I  can  bear  it." 

With  the  tenderness  of  a  father,  Mr.  Howard  gently  and 
soothingly  told  her  that  letters  had  that  morning  arrived  from 
Edward's  captain,  informing  them  that  the  young  lieutenant 
had  been  despatched  with  a  boat's  crew,  on  a  message  to  ap  ship 


424  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

stationed  about  twelve  miles  southward,  towards  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope ;  a  storm  had  arisen  as  the  night  darkened,  but 
still  Captain  Seaforth  had  felt  no  uneasiness,  imagining  his 
young  officer  had  deemed  it  better  remaining  on  board  the 
Stranger  all  night,  though  somewhat  contrary  to  his  usual 
habits  of  promptness  and  activity.  As  the  day(  however, 
•waned  to  noon,  and  still  Lieutenant  Fortescue  did  not  appear, 
the  captain  dispatched  another  boat  to  know  why  he  tarried. 
The  sea  was  still  raging  in  fury  from  the  last  night's  storm, 
but  the  foaming  billows  had  never  before  detained  Edward 
from  his  duty.  With  increasing  anxiety,  Captain  Seaforth 
paced  the  deck  for  several  hours,  until  indeed  the  last  boat  he 
had  sent  returned.  He  scanned  the  crew  with  an  eye  that 
never  failed  him,  and  saw  with  dismay,  that  neither  his  lieu- 
tenant nor  one  of  his  men  were  amongst  them.  Horror-stricken 
and  distressed,  the  sailors  related,  that  despite  every  persuasion 
of  the  captain  of  the  Stranger,  Lieutenant  Fortescue  had  re- 
solved on  returning  to  the  Gem  the  moment  his  message  had 
been  delivered  and  the  answer  given ;  his  men  had  seconded 
him,  though  many  signs  denoted  that  as  the  evening  advanced, 
so  too  would  the  impending  storm.  Twilight  was  darkening 
around  him  when,  urged  on  by  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty,  the 
intrepid  young  man  descended  into  the  boat,  and  not  half  an 
hour  afterwards  the  storm  came  on  with  terrific  violence,  and 
the  pitchy  darkness  had  entirely  frustrated  every  effort  of  the 
crew  of  the  Stranger  to  trace  the  boat.  Morning  dawned,  and 
brought  with  it  some  faint  confirmation  of  the  fate  which  all 
had  dreaded.  Some  spars  on  which  the  name  of  the  Gem  was 
impressed,  and  which  were  easily  recognized  as  belonging  to 
the  lotig-boat,  floating  on  the  foaming  waves,  and  the  men  sent 
out  to  reconnoitre  had  discovered  the  dead  body  of  one  of  the 
unfortunate  sailors,  who  the  evening  previous  had  been  so  full 
of  life  and  mirth,  clinging  to  some  sea-weed ;  while  a  hat, 
bearing  the  name  of  Edward  Fortescue,  caused  the  painful 
suspicion  that  the  young  and  gallant  officer  had  shared  the 
same  fate.  Every  inquiry  was  set  afloat,  every  exertion  made, 
to  discover  something  more  certain  concerning  him,  but  with- 
out any  effect.  Some  faint  hope  there  yet  existed,  that  he 
might  have  been  picked  up  by  one  of  the  ships  which  were 
continually  passing  and  repassing  on  that  course  ;  and  Captain 
Seaforth  concluded  his  melancholy  narration  by  entreating 
tylr.  Hamilton  not  to  permit  himself  to  despair,  as  hope  there 
yet  was,  though  but  faint.  Evidently  he  wrote  as  he  felt,  not 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE  425 

merely  to  calm  the  minds  of  Edward;s  sorrowing  friends,  but 
Mr.  Hamilton  could  not  share  these  sanguine  expectations. 
Mystery  had  also  enveloped  the  fate  of  hia  brother-in-law, 
Charles  Manvers ;  long,  very  long,  had  he  hoped  that  he  lived, 
that  he  would  yet  return  ;  but  year  after  year  had  passed,  till 
fiuf-aiid  twenty  had  rolled  by,  and  still  there  were  no  tidings. 
Well  did  he  remember  the  heart-sickening  that  had  attended 
his  hopes  deferred,  the  airguish  of  suspense  which  for  many 
weary  months  had  been  the  portion  of  his  wife,  and  he  thought 
it  almost  better  for  Ellen  to  believe  her  brother  dead,  than  to 
live  on  in  the  indulgence  of  hopes  that  might  have  no  foundation  ; 
yet  how  could  be  tell  her  he  was  dead,  when  there  was  one 
gleam  of  hope,  however  faint.  Well  did  he  know  the  devoted 
affection  which  the  orphans  bore  to  each  other.  He  gazed  on 
her  in  deep  commiseration,  as  in  unbroken  silence  she  listened 
to  the, tenderly-told  tale;  and,  drawing  her  once  more  to  his 
bosom  as  Mr.  Howard  ceased,  he  fondly  and  repeatedly  kissed 
her  brow,  as  he  entreated  her  not  to  despair;  Edward  might 
yet  be  saved.  No  word  came  from  Ellen's  parched  lips,  but 
he  felt  the  cold  shudder  of  suffering  pass  through  her  frame. 
Several  minutes  passed,  and  still  she  raised  not  her  head.  Im- 
pressively the  venerable  clergyman  addressed  her,  in  tones  and 
words  that  never  failed  to  find  their  way  to  the  orphan's  heart. 
He  spoke  of  a  love  and  mercy  that  sent  these  continued  trials 
to  mark  her  as  more  peculiarly  His  own.  He  told  of  comfort, 
that  even  in  such  a  moment  she  could  feel.  He  bade  her  cease 
not  to  pray  for  her  brothers  safety;  that  nothing  was  too  great 
for  the  power  of  the  mercy  of  the  Lord;  that  however  it  might 
appear  impossible  to  worldly  minds  that  he  could  be  saved,  yet 
if  the  Almighty's  hand  had  been  stretched  forth,  a  hundred 
storms  might  have  passed  him  by  unhurt;  yet  lie  bade  her  not 
entertain  too  sanguine  hopes.  '•  Place  our  beloved  Edward  and 
yourself  in  the  hands  of  our  Father  in  heaven,  my  child;  im- 
ploi*e  Him  for  strength  to  meet  His  will,  whatever  it  may  be, 
and  if,  indeed.  He  hath  taken  him  in  mercy  to  a  happier  world, 
Tie  will  give  you  strength  and  grace  to  meet  His  ordinance  of 
love  •  but  if  hope  still  lingers,  check  it  not — he  may  be  spared. 
]>o  comforted,  then,  my  child,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  beloved 
relative  yet  spared  you,  try  and  compose  your  agitated  spirits. 
We  may  trust  to  your  care  in  retaining  this  fresh  grief  from 
her,  I  know  we  may." 

"  You  are  right,  Mr.  Howard ;  oh,  may  God  bless  you  for 
your   kindness !"  said  the   almost   heart-broken  girl,  as  she 


426  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

raised  her  head  and  placed  her  trembling  hands  in  his.  Ilei 
cheeks  were  colorless  as  marble,  but  the  long  dark  fringes  that 
rested  on  them  were  unwetted  by  tears;  she  had  forcibly  sent 
them  back.  Her  heart  throbbed  almost  to  suffocation,  but  she 
would  not  listen  to  its  anguish.  The  form  of  Herbert  seemed 
to  flit  before  her  and  remind  her  of  her  promise,  that  her  every 
care,  her  every  energy  should  be  devoted  to  his  mother;  and 
that  remembrance,  strengthened  as  it  was  by  Mr.  Howard's 
words,  nerved  her  to  the  painful  duty  which  w;is  now  hers  to 
perform.  "  You  may  indeed  trust  me.  My  Father  in  heavon 
will  support  me,  and  give  me  strength  to  conceal  this  intelli- 
gence effectually,  till  my  beloved  aunt  is  enabled  to  hear  it 
with  composure.  Do  not  fear  me,  Mr.  Maitland ;  it  is  not  in 
niy  own  strength  I  trust,  for  that  I  feel  too  painfully  at  tins 
moment  .s  less  than  nothing.  My  dearest  uncle,  will  you  not 
trust  your  Ellen  ?" 

She  turned  towards  him  as  she  spoke,  and  Mr.  Hamilton 
felt  the  tears  glisten  in  his  eyes  as  he  met  the  upturned  glance 
of  the  afflicted  orphan — now  indeed,  as  it  seemed,  so  utterly 
alone. 

"  Yes,  I  do  and  ever  will  trust  you,  my  beloved  Ellen,"  he 
said,  with  emotion.  "  May  God  grant  you  His  blessing  in  this 
most  painful  duty.  To  Him  I  commend  you,  my  child  ;  t 
•would  speak  of  comfort  and  hope,  but  He  alone  can  give  them." 

"  And  He  ivill"  replied  Ellen,  in  a  slow,  steady  voice ;  and, 
gently  withdrawing  her  hand  from  Mr.  Howard's,  she  softly 
but  quickly  left  the  library.  But  half  an  hour  elapsed,  arid 
Ellen  was  once  more  seated  by  her  aunt's  couch.  The  struggle 
of  that  half  hour  we  will  not  follow ;  it  was  too  sacred,  too 
painful  to  be  divulged,  and  many,  many  solitary  hours  wer3 
thus  spent  in  suffering,  known  only  to  herself  and  to  her  God. 

"  You  have  been  long  away  from  me,  my  Ellen,  or  else  my 
selfish  wish  to  have  you  again  near  me  has  made  me  think  so," 
Mrs.  Hamilton  said,  that  eventful  morning. 

••  Have  you  then  missed  me,  my  dear  aunt?  I  am  glad  of 
it,  for  comfort  as  it  is  to  be  allowed  to  remain  always  with  you, 
it  is  even  greater  pleasure  to  think  you  like  to  have  me  near 
you."  replied  Ellen. 

"  Can  I  do  otherwise,  my  own  Ellen  ?  Where  can  I  find  a 
nurse  so  tender,  affectionate,  and  attentive  as  you  are  ?  Whc 
would  know  so  well  how  to  cheer  and  soothe  me  as  the  child 
whose  smallest  action  proves  how  much  she  loves  me  ?" 

Tears  glistened  in  the  eyes  of  Ellen  as  her  aunt  spoke,  fos 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  427 

if  she  had  wanted  fresh  incentive  for  exertion,  those  simple 
words  would  have  given  it.  Oh,  how  much  encouragement 
may  be  given  in  one  sentence  from  those  we  love  ;  how  is  every 
effort  to  please  lightened  by  the  consciousness  it  is  appreciated  ; 
how  is  every  duty  sweetened  when  we  feel  we  are  beloved. 
.  Mrs.  Hamilton  knew  not  how  that  expression  of  her  feel- 
ings had  fallen  on  the  torn  heart  of  her  niece;  she  guessed  not 
one  half  Ellen  endured  in  secret  for  her  sake,  but  she  felt,  and 
showed  she  felt,  the  full  value  of  the  unremitting  affectionate 
attentions  she  received. 

Days,  weeks  passed  by ;  at  length,  Mrs.  Hamilton's  ex- 
treme debility  began  to  give  place  to  the  more  restless  weari- 
ness of  convalescence.  It  was  comparatively  an  easy  task  to 
sit  in  continued  silence  by  the  couch,  actively  yet  quietly  to 
anticipate  her  faintest  wish,  and  attend  to  all  the  duties  of 
nurse,  which  demanded  no  exertion  in  the  way  of  talking,  and 
other  efforts  at  amusement ;  there  were  then  very  many  hours 
that  Ellen's  saddened  thoughts  could  dwell  on  the  painful 
past. 

She  struggled  to  behold  heaven's  mercy  in  affliction,  and 
rapidly,  more  rapidly  than  she  was  herself  aware  of,  was  this 
young  and  gentle  girl  progressing  in  the  paths  of  grace.  Had 
Herbert  and  Mary  both  lived  and  been  united,  Ellen  would, 
in  all  probability,  have  at  length  so  conquered  her  feelings,  as 
to  have  been  happy  in  the  marriage  state  ,  and  though  she  could 
not  have  bestowed  the  first  freshness  of  young  affection,  she 
would  ever  have  so  felt  and  acted  as  to  be,  in  very  truth,  as 
Lord  St.  Eval  had  said,  a  treasure  to  any  man  who  had  tho 
felicity  to  call  her  his.  Had  her  cousin  indeed  married.  Ellen 
mijjht  have  felt  it  incumbent  on  her  as  an  actual  duty  so  to 
conquer  herself;  but  now  that  he  was  dead,  she  felt  it  no  sin  to 
love,  in  devoting  herself  to  his  parents  in  their  advancing  age, 
partly  for  his  sake,  in  associating  him  with  all  she  did  for 
them,  and  for  all  whom  he  loved ;  there  was  no  sin  now  in  all 
this,  but  she  felt  it  would  be  a  crime  to  give  her  hand  to 
another,  when  her  whole  heart  was  thus  devoted  to  the  dead. 
There  was  something  peculiarly  soothing  to  the  grateful  and 
affectionate  feelings  with  which  she  regarded  her  aunt  and 
uncle,  that  she  perhaps  would  be  the  only  one  of  all  those  who 
had 

"  Tlayed 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree, 
Those  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 
Around  one  parent  knee," 


428  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

who  wou^d  remain  with  nothing  to  divert  her  attention  from  tha 
pleasing  task  of  soothing  and  cheering  their  advancing  years, 
and  her  every  effort  was  now  turned  towards  making  her  singh 
life  indeed  one  of  blessedness,  by  works  of  good  and  thoughts 
of  love  towards  all  with  whom  she  might  associate ;  but  in 
these  visions  her  brother  had  ever  intimately  mingled.  She 
had  pictured  herself  beholding  and  rejoicing  in  his  happiness, 
loving  his  children  as  her  own.  being  to  them  a  second  mother. 
She  had  fancied  herself  ever  received  with  joy,  a  welcome  in- 
rnate  of  hei  Edward's  home ;  and  so  strongly  had  her  imagina- 
tion become  impressed  with  this  idea,  that  its  annihilation  ap- 
peared to  heighten  the  anguish  wita  which  the  news  of  his 
untimely  fate  had  overwhelmed  her.  He  was  gone ;  and  it 
seemed  as  if  she  had  never,  never  felt  so  utterly  destitute  be- 
fore ;  as  if  advancing  years  had  entirely  lost  the  soft  and  gentle 
coloring  with  which  they  had  so  lately  been  invested.  It 
seemed  but  a  very  short  interval  since  she  had  seen  him.  the 
lovely,  playful  child,  his  mother's  pet,  the  admiration  of  all  who 
looked  on  him  ;  then  he  stood  before  her,  the  handsome,  manly 
boy  she  had  parted  with,  when  he  first  left  thp  sheltering  ruof 
of  Oakwood,  to  become  a  sailor.  Then,  shuddering,  she  re- 
called him  when  they  had  met  again,  after  a  lapse  of  suffering 
in  the  young  life  of  each  ;  and  her  too  sensitive  fancy  conjured 
up  the  thought  that  her  fault  had  not  yet  been  sufficiently 
chastised,  that  he  was  taken  from  her  because  she  had  loved 
him  too  well ;  because  her  deep,  intense  affection  for  him  had 
caused  her  once  to  forget  the  mandate  of  her  God.  In  the 
deep  agony  of  that  thought,  it  seemed  as  if  she  lived  over 
again  those  months  of  suffering,  which  in  a  former  page  we 
ha"e  endeavored  to  describe. 

Humbled  to  the  dust,  she  recognized  the  chaptising  hand  of 
her  Maker ;  and  as  if  it  had  only  now  been  committed,  she 
acknowledged  and  repented  the  transgression  a  moment's  pow- 
erful temptation  had  forced  her  to  commit.  Had  there  been 
one  to  whom  she  could  have  confessed  these  feelings,  whose 
soothing  friendship  would  have  whispered  it  was  needless  and 
uncalled-for  to  enhance  the  suffering  of  Ed'vard's  fate  by  such 
self-reproach,  Ellen's  young  heart  would  have  been  relieved ; 
but  from  that  beloved  relative  who  might  have  consoled  and 
alleviated  her  grief,  this  bitter  trial  she  must  still  conceal.  Mr. 
Hamilton  dared  not  encourage  the  hope  which  he  had  never 
felt,  but  his  bosom  swelled  with  love  and  almost  veneration  for 
the  gentle  being,  to  whose  care  Mr.  Maitland  had  assured  him 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  429 

the  recovery  of  his  beloved  wife  was,  under  Providence,  greatly 
owing.  He  longed  to  speak  of  comfort ;  but,  alas  !  what  could 
he  say  ?  he  would  have  praised,  encouraged,  but  there  was  that 
about  his  niece  that  utterly  forbade  it ;  for  it  silently  yet  im- 
pressively told  whence  that  sustaining  strength  arose. 

It  was  when  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  beginning  to  recover,  that 
still  more  active  exertions  on  the  part  of  Ellen  were  demanded. 
Every  effort  was  now  made  to  prevent  her  relapsing  into  that 
despondency  which  convalescence  so  often  engenders,  however 
we  may  strive  to  resist  it.  She  was  ready  at  a  minute's  notice 
to  comply  with  and  often  to  anticipate  her  aunt's  most  faintly 
hinted  wishes ;  she  would  read  to  her,  sing  her  favorite  airs, 
or  by  a  thousand  little  winning  arts  unconsciously  to  ettiee 
the  interest  of  her  aunt  to  her  various  pursuits,  as  had  been 
her  wont  in  former  days.  There  was  no  appearance  of  effort 
on  her  part,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  insensibly,  at  first,  but  surely 
felt  that  with  her  strength  her  habitual  cheerfulness  was  re- 
turning, and  fervently  she  blessed  her  God  for  this  abundant 
mercy.  No  exertion  on  her  side  was  wanting  to  become  to 
her  husband  and  household  as  she  had  been  before  the  death 
of  her  beloved  son  ;  she  felt  the  beauteous  flower  was  trans- 
planted above ;  the  hand  of  the  reaper  had  laid  it  low,  though 
the  eye  of  faith  beheld  it  in  perfect  undying  loveliness ;  and 
though  the  mother's  heart  yet  sorrowed,  'twas  a  sorrow  now  in 
which  no  pain  was  mingled. 

One  evening  they  had  been  speaking,  among  other  subjects, 
of  Lilla  Grahame,  whose  letters,  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  observed, 
were  not  written  in  her  usual  style.  Too  well  did  Ellen  guess 
the  reason ;  once  only  the  poor  girl  had  alluded  to  Edward's 
supposed  fate,  but  that  once  had  more  than  sufficiently  be- 
trayed to  Ellen's  quickly-excited  sympathy  the  true  nature  of 
her  feelings  towards  him.  As  Lilla  had  not,  however,  written 
in  perfect  confidence,  but  still  as  if  she  feared  to  write  too 
much  on  emotions  she  scarcely  understood  herself,  Ellen  had  not 
answered  her  as  she  would  otherwise  have  done.  That  her 
sympathy  was  LilJa's  was  very  clearly  evident  but  as  the 
secrecy  preserved  towards  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  been  made 
known  to  her  by  Emmeline.  she  had  not  written  again  on  the 
subject,  but  jet  Ellen  was  not  deceived;  in  every  letter  she 
received  she  could  easily  penetrate  where  Lilla's  anxious 
thoughts  were  wandering  Of  Cecil  Grahame  there  were  still 
no  tidings,  and,  all  circumstances  considered,  it  did  not  seem 
strange  she  should  often  be  sorrowful  and  anxious.  On  dis« 


430  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

missing  tnis  subject,  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  asked  Ellen  to  sing 
to  her.  and  selected,  as  a  very  old  favorite,  "The  Graves  of 
the  Household ."  She  had  always  forgotten  it.  she  said,  be- 
fore, when  Ellen  wished  her  to  select  one  she  preferred.  She 
was  surprised  that  Ellen  had  not  reminded  her  of  it,  as  it  had 
once  been  an  equal  favorite  with  her.  For  a  moment  Ellen 
hesitated,  and  then  hastened  to  the  piano.  In  a  low,  sweet, 
yet  unfaltering  voice,  she  complied  with  her  aunt's  request ; 
once  only  her  lip  quivered,  for  she  could  not  sing  that  vtrso 
without  the  thought  of  Edward. 

"  The  sea.  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one, 

He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep; 

He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep." 

Mr.  Hamilton  unobserved  had  entered  the  room,  and  tow 
stood  with  folded  arms  and  mournful  glance,  alternately  re- 
garding his  wife  and  niece.  Mr.  Maitland  had  that  morning 
told  him  there  was  not  now  the  slightest  danger  remaining, 
and  he  rather  advised  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  should  be  informed 
of  what  had  passed,  lest  the  painful  intelligence  should  come 
upon  her  when  quite  unprepared.  He  had  striven  for  com- 
posure, and  he  now  entered  expressly  to  execute  this  painful 
task ;  be»had  marked  the  suffering  imprinted  on  his  niece's 
face,  and  he  could  continue  the  deception  no  longer.  On  the 
conclusion  of  her  song,  Ellen  reseated  herself  on  the  stool  she 
had  occupied  at  her  aunt's  feet,  her  heart  too  full  to  speak. 

"Why  are  you  so  silent,  my  dear  husband?"  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton said,  addressing  him,  and  he  almost  started  at  her  ad 
dre^s.  "  May  I  know  the  subject  of  such  very  deep  thought?" 

'•  Ellen,  partly,"  he  replied,  and  he  spoke  the  truth.  "  I 
was  thinking  now  pale  and  thin  she  looks,  and  how  much  she 
has  lately  had  tc  distress  and  cause  her  anxiety." 

"  Sh&  has,  indeed,  and  therefore  the  sooner  we  can  leave 
Oakwood  for  a  few  months,  as  we  intended,  the  better  I 
have  been  a  long  and  troublesome  patient,  my  Ellen,  and  all 
your  efforts  to  restore  me  to  perfect  health  will  ba  quite  inef- 
fectual unless  I  see  the  color  return  to  your  cheek,  and  your 
Btep  resume  its  elasticity." 

"  Do  not  fear  for  me,  my  beloved  aunt  ;  indeed  I  am  quite 
well,"  answered  Ellen,  not  daring  to  look  up,  lest  her  tears 
should  be  discovered. 

"  You  are  right,  my  Emmelinc,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Mr 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  431 

Hamilton,  rousing  himself  with  a  strong  effort,  and  advancing 
to  the  couch  where  his  wife  sat,  he  threw  his  arms  around  her. 
"  You  do  not  jet  know  all  that  our  Ellen  has  in  secret  borne 
for  your  sake.  You  do  not  yet  know  the  deep  affliction  which 
is  the  real  cause  of  that  alteration  in  her  health,  which  only 
now  you  are  beginning  to  discover.  Oh,  my  beloved  wife,  I 
Lave  feared  to  tell  you,  *iut  now  that  strength  is  returning,  I 
may  hesitate  no  longer;  for  her  sake  you  will  bear  these  cruel 
tidings  even  as  she  has  done.  Will  you  not  comfort  her? 
Will  you — "  The  sudden  opening  of  the  door  arrested  tho 
words  upon  his  lips.  Touched  by  indefinable  alarm,  Mr,1. 
Hamilton's  hand  grasped  his  without  the  power  of  speech. 
Ellen  had  risen,  for  she  felt  she  could  not  hear  those  sad  words 
again  spoken. 

It  was  James  the  footman  who  entered,  and  he  placed  a 
letter  in  her  hand.  She  looked  at  the  direction,  a  faint  cry 
broke  from  her  lips;  she  tore  it  open,  gazed  on  the  signature, 
and  sunk  senseless  on  the  floor.  She  who  had  borne  suffering 
so  well,  who  had  successfully  struggled  to  conceal  every  trace 
of  emotion,  when  affliction  was  her  allotted  portion,  was  now 
too  weak  to  bear  the  sudden  transition  from  such  bitter  grief 
to  overwhelming  joy.  Mr.  Hamilton  sprang  forward;  he 
could  not  arrest  her  fall,  but  his  eye  had  caught  the  well-known 
writing  of  him  he  had  believed  lay  buried  in  the  ocean  ;  and 
conquering  her  own  extreme  agitation,  Mrs.  Hamilton  com- 
pelled herself  to  think  of  nothing  but  restoring  the  still  sense- 
less girl  to  life.  A  few.  very  few  words  told  her  all.  At  first 
Mr.  Hamilton's  words  had  been  almost  inarticulate  from  the 
thankfulness  that  filled  his  heart.  It  was  long  ere  Ellen  awoke 
to  consciousness.  Her  slight  frame  was  utterly  exhausted  bv 
its  continued  conflict  with  the  mind  within,  and  now  that  joy 
had  come,  that  there  was  no  more  need  for  control  or  sorrow, 
her  extraordinary  energy  of  character  for  the  moment  fled,  and 
left  her  in  very  truth  the  weak  and  loving  woman.  Before  she 
could  restore  life  to  Ellen's  inanimate  form,  Mrs.  Hamilton 
had  time  to  hear  that  simple  tale  of  silent  suffering,  to  feel  her 
bosom  glow  in  increasing  love  and  gratitude  towards  the  gentle 
being  who  for  her  sake  had  endured  as  much. 

':  Was  it  but  a  dream,  or  did  I  not  read  that  Edward  lived, 
was  spared, — that  he  was  not  drowned  ?  Oh,  tell  me  !  my 
brain  seems  still  to  swim.  Did  they  not  give  me  a  letter 
signed  by  him  himself?  Oh,  was  it  only  fancy  ?" 

"  It  is  truth,  my  beloved  Ellen ;  the  Almighty  mercifully 


432  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

stretched  forth  His  arm  and  saved  him.  Should  we  not  give 
nim  thanks,  my  child?1' 

Like  dew  upon  the  arid  desert,  or  healing  balm  to  a  throb- 
bing wound,  so  did  those  few  an<2  simple  words  fall  on  Ellen's 
car;  but  the  fervent  thanksgiving  that  rose  swelling  in  her 
heart,  wanted  not  words  to  render  it  acceptable  to  Him.  whose 
unbounded  mercy  she  thus  acknowledged  and  adored. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  pressed  her  closer  to  her  bosom,  again  and 
again  she  kissed  her,  and  tried  to  speak  the  words  of  affection- 
ate soothing,  which  seldom  failed  to  restore  Ellen  to  com- 
posure. 

"  You  told  me  once,  my  Ellen,  that  you  never,  never  cottld 
repay  the  large  debt  of  gratitude  you  seemed  to  think  you 
owed  me.  Do  you  remember  my  saying  you  could  not  tell 
that  one  day  you  might  make  me  your  debtor,  and  are  not  my 
words  truth?  Did  I  not  prophesy  rightly?  What  do  I  not 
owe  you,  my  own  love,  for  sparing  me  so  much  anxiety  and 
wretchedness?  Look  up  and  smile,  iny  Ellen,  and  let  us  try 
if  we  can  listen  composedly  to  our  dear  Edward's  account  of 
h'S  providential  escape.  If  he  were  near  me  I  would  scold  him 
for  giving  you  such  inexpressible  joy  so  suddenly." 

Ellen  did  look  up  and  did  smile  a  bright  beaming  smile  of 
chastened  happiness,  and  again  arid  again  did  she  read  over 
that  letter,  as  if  it  were  tidings  too  blessed  to  be  believed,  as  if 
it  could  not  be  Edward  himself  who  had  written.  His  letter 
was  hasty,  nor  did  he  enter  into  very  many  particulars,  which, 
to  render  a  particular  part  of  our  talc  intelligible,  we  must  re- 
late at  large  in  another  chapter.  This  epistle  was  dated  from 
Rio  Janeiro,  and  written  evidently  under  the  idea  that  his  sis- 
ter had  received  a  former  letter  containing  every  minutiae  of 
his  escape,  which  he  had  forwarded  to  her,  under  cover  to  Cap- 
tain Seaforth,  only  seven  days  after  his  supposed  death.  Had 
the  captain  received  this  letter,  all  anxiety  would  have  been 
spared,  for  as  he  did  not  write  to  Mr.  Hamilton  for  above  a 
week  after  Edward's  disappearance,  it  would  have  reached  him 
first ;  it  was  therefore  very  clear  it  had  been  lost  on  its  way, 
and  Edward  fearing  such  might  be  the  case,  from  the  uncertain 
method  by  which  it  had  been  sent,  wrote  again.  He  had  quite 
recovered,  be  said,  all  ill  effects  from  being  so  long  floating  in 
the  water  on  a  narrow  plank  ;  that  he  was  treated  with  marked 
kindness  and  attention  by  all  the  crew  of  the  Alma,  a  Spanish 
vessel  bound  to  Rio  Janeiro  and  thence  to  New  York,  particu- 
larly by  an  Englishman,  Lieutenant  Mordaunt,  to  whose  euer- 


Tire  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  433 

getio  exertions  he  sard  he  greatly  owed  his  preservation  ;  fop 
it  was  he  who  had  prevailed  on  the  captain  to  lower  a  boat,  to 
discover  what  that  strange  object  was  floating  on  the  waves. 
He  continued,  there  was  something  about  Lieutenant  Mordaunt 
he  could  not  define,  but  which  had  the  power  of  irresistibly 
attracting  his  respect,  if  not  affection.  His  story  he  believed 
wag  uncommon,  but  he  had  not  yet  heard  it  all.  and  had  no 
time  to  repeat  it,  as  he  was  writing  in  great  haste.  Affection- 
ately he  hoped  no  alarm  amongst  his  friends  had  been  enter- 
tained on  his  account,  that  it  would  not  be  long  before  he  re- 
turned home ;  for  as  soon  as  the  slow-sailing  Spaniard  could 
finish  her  affairs  with  the  ports  along  the  coast  of  Spanish 
America,  and  reach  New- York,  Lieutenant  Mordaunt  and  him- 
self had  determined  on  quitting  her,  and  returning  to  England 
by  the  first  packet  that  sailed.  A  letter  to  New  York  might 
reach  him,  but  it  was  a  chance  ;  therefore  he  did  not  expect  to 
receive  any  certain  intelligence  of  home — a  truth  which  only 
made  him  the  more  anxious  to  reach  it. 

Quickly  the  news  that  Edward  Fortescue  lived,  and  was 
returning  home  in  perfect  health,  extended  far  and  wide,  and 
brought  joy  to  all  who  heard  it.  A  messenger  was  instantly 
dispatched  to  Trevilion  Vicarage  to  impart  the  joyful  intelli- 
gence to  Arthur  and  Emmeline,  and  the  next  day  saw  them 
both  at  Oakwood  to  rejoice  with  Ellen  at  this  unexpected  but 
most  welcome  news.  There  was  not  one  who  had  been  aware 
of  the  suspense  Mr.  Hamilton  and  Ellen  had  been  enduring 
who  did  not  sympathize  in  their  relief.  Even  Mrs.  Greville 
left  her  solitary  home  to  seek  the  friends  of  her  youth  ;  she 
had  done  so  previously  when  affliction  was  their  portion.  She 
t"d  more  than  once  shared  Ellen's  anxious  task  of  nursing. 
when  Mrs.  Hamilton's  fever  had  been  highest;  kindly  and  ju- 
diciously Hie  had  soothed  in  grief,  and  Mrs.  Greville's  charac- 
ter was  too  unselfish  to  refuse  her  sympathy  in  joy. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  receipt  of  that  tetter.  Mr.  Hamilton, 
his  wife,  and  Ellen,  removed  to  a  beautiful  little  villa  in  tho 
neighborhood  of  Richmond,  where  they  intended  to  pass  some 
of  the  winter  months.  A  change  was  desirable  ;  indeed  requi- 
site for  all.  But  a  short  interval  had  passed  since  the  death 
of  their  beloved  Herbert,  and  there  were  many  times  when  the 
parents'  hearts  yet  painfully  bled,  and  each  felt  retirement,  tho 
society  of  each  other,  and  sometimes  of  their  most  valued 
friends,  the  exercise  of  domestic  and  religious  duties,  would  be 
the  most  efficient  means  of  acquiring  that  peace  of  which  even 
19 


434  TIIL  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

the  greatest,  affliction  cannot  deprive  the  truly  religions  mind. 
At  Christmas,  St.  Eval  had  promised  his  family  should  join 
them,  and  all  looked  forward  to  that  period  with  pleasure. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

ALTHOUGH  we  are  as  much  averse  to  retrospection  in  a  tale  aa 
our  readers  can  be,  yet  to  retrace  our  steps  for  a  short  interval 
is  a  necessity.  Edward  had  written  highly  of  Lieutenant 
Mordaunt,  but  as  he  happens  to  be  a  personage  of  rather  more 
consequence  to  him  than  young  Fortescue  imagined,  we  must 
be  allowed  to  introduce  him  more  intimately  to  our  readers. 

It  was  the  evening  after  that  in  which  Lieutenant  Fortescuo 
had  so  rashly  encountered  the  storm,  that  a  Spanish  vessel  of 
ill-shaped  bulk  and  of  some  hundred  tons,  was  slowly  pursuing 
her  course  from  the  coast  of  Guinea  towards  Ilio  Janeiro. 
The  sea  was  calm,  almost  motionless,  compared  with  its  pre- 
vious fearful  agitation.  The  sailors  were  gayly  employed  in 
their  various  avocations,  declaring  loudly  that  this  respite  of 
calm  was  entirely  owing  to  the  interposition  of  St.  Jago  in 
their  favor,  he  being  the  saint  to  whom  they  had  last  appealed 
during  the  continuance  of  the  tempest.  Aloof  from  the  crew, 
and  leaning  .against  a  mast,  stood,  one  apparently  very  diffei-ent 
to  those  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  It  was  an  English 
countenance,  but  embrowned  almost  to  a  swarthy  hue.  from 
continued  exposure  to  a  tropical  sun.  Tall  and  remarkably 
well  formed,  he  might  well  have  been  supposed  of  noble  birth  : 
there  were,  however,  traces  of  long-continued  suffering  im- 
printc'l  OH  his  manly  face  and  in  his  form,  which  sometimes 
was  slightly  bent,  as  if  from  weakness  rather  than  from  age. 
His  dark  brown  hair  was  in  many  parts  silvered  with  gray, 
which  made  him  appear  as  if  he  had  seen  some  fifty  years  at 
least;  though  at  tildes,  by  the  expression  of  his  countenance, 
he  might  have  been  thought  full  ten  years  younger.  Melan- 
choly was  the  characteristic  of  his  features  ;  but  his  eye  would 
kindle  and  the  cheek  flush,  betraying  that  a  high,  warm  spirit 
still  lurked  within,  one  which  a  keen  observer  might  have 
fancied  had  been  suppressed  bj  injury  and  suffering.  It  was 
in  truth  a  countenance  on  which  a  physiognomist  or  painter 
would  have  loved  to  dwell,  for  both  would  have  found  in  it  an 
interest  they  could  scarcely  have  defined. 

Thus  resting  in  meditative  silence,  Lieutenant  3Iordaunt  * 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  435 

attention  was  attracted  by  a  strange  object  floating  on  the  now 
calm  ocean.  There  were  no  ships  near,  and  Mordaunt  felt  his 
eyes  fascinated  in  that  direction,  and  looking  still  more  atten- 
tively, he  felt  convinced  it  was  a  human  body  secured  to  a 
plank.  He  sought  the  captain  instantly,  and  used  every  per- 
suasion humanity  could  dictate  to  urge  him  to  lower  a  boat 
For  some  time  he  entreated  in  vain.  Captain  Bartholomew 
said  it  was  mere  folly  to  think  there  was  any  chance  of  saving 
a  man's  life,  who  had  been  so  long  tossed  about  on  the  water, 
it  would  be  only  detaining  him  for  nothing;  his  ship  was 
already  too  full  either  for  comfort  or  profit,  and  he  would  not 
do  it. 

Fire  flashed  from  the  dark  eyes  of  Mordaunt  at  the  cap- 
tain's positive  and  careless  language,  a"tid  he  spoke  again  with 
all  the  spirited  eloquence  of  a  British  sailor.  He  did  not  spare 
the  cruel  recklessness  that  could  thus  refuse  to  save  a  feliow- 
creature's  life,  merely  because  it  might  occasion  a  little  delay 
and  trouble.  Captain  Bartholomew  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment ;  he  little  expected  such  a  burst  of  indignant  feeling  from 
one  whose  melancholy  and  love  of  solitude  he  had  despised  ; 
and,  without  answering  a  word,  led  the  way  to  the  deck,  looked 
in  the  direction  of  the  plank,  which  had  now  floated  near  enough 
to  the  ship  for  the  body  of  Edward  to  be  clearly  visible  upon 
it.  and  then  instantly  commanded  a  boat  to  be  lowered  and 
bring  it  on  board. 

"  It  will  be  but  taking  him  out  of  the  sea  to  plunge  him 
back  again,  Senor,"  he  said,  in  Spanish,  to  the  Lieutenant,  who 
was  now  anxiously  watching  the  proceedings  of  the  sailors, 
who.  more  active  than  their  captain,  had  carefully  laid  the 
plank  and  its  burden  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  were  now 
rapidly  rowing  to  the  ship.  "  J>fever  was  death  more  clearly 
imprinted  on  a  man's  countenance  than  it  is  there,  but  have 
your  own  will ;  only  do  not  ask  me  to  keep  a  dead  man  on 
board,  I  should  have  my  men  mutiny  in  a  twinkling." 

Mordaunt  made  him  no  answer,  but  hastened  towards  the 
gangway,  where  the  men  were  now  ascending.  They  carefully 
unloosed  the  bonds  that  attached  the  body  to  the  plank,  and 
laid  him  on  a  pile  of  cushions  where  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun  shone  full  on  his  face  and  form.  One  glance  sufficed  for 
Mordaunt  to  perceive  he  was  an  English  officer  ;  another  caused 
him  to  start  some  paces  back  in  astonishment.  As  the  youth 
thus  lay,  the  deadly  paleness  of  his  countenance,  the  extreme 
fairness  of  his  throat  and  part  of  his  neck,  which,  as  the  sailors 
16* 


436  rHE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

hastily  untied  his  neckcloth  and  opened  his  jacket,  were  fully 
exposed  to  view,  the  beautifully  formed  brow  strewed  by  thick 
masses  of  golden  curls  gave  him  so  much  the  appearance  of  a 
delicate  female,  that  the  sailors  looked  humorously  at  each 
other,  as  if  wondering  what  right  he  had  to  a  sailor's  jacket ; 
but  Mordaunt's  eyes  never  moved  from  him.  Thoughts  came 
crowding  over  him,  so  full  of  youth,  of  home  and  joy,  tliat  tears 
gushed  to  his  eyes,  tears  which  had  not  glistened  there  for 
many  a  long  year ;  and  yet  he  knew  not  wherefore,  he  knew 
not,  he  could  not,  had  he  been  asked,  have  defined  the  cause  of 
that  strong  emotion;  but  the  more  he  looked  upon  that  beau- 
tiful face,  the  faster  and  thicker  came  tl.ose  visions  on  his  soul. 
Memories  came  rushing  back,  days  of  his  fresh  and  happy 
boyhood,  affections,  long  slumbering,  recalled  in  all  their 
purity,  and  his  bosom  yearned  towards  home,  as  if  no  time  had 
elapsed  since  last  he  had  beheld  it,  as  if  he  should  find  all 
those  he  loved  even  as  he  had  left  them.  And  what  had 
brought  them  back  ?  who  was  the  }-outh  on  whom  he  gazed, 
and  towards  whom  he  felt  affection  strangely  and  suddenly 
aroused,  affection  so  powerful,  he  could  not  shake  it  off? 
Nothing  in  all  probability  to  him ;  and  vainly  he  sought  to 
account  for  the  emotions  those  bright  features  awakened 
within  him.  Rousing  himself,  as  symptoms  of  life  began  to 
appear  in  the  exhausted  form  before  him,  he  desired  that  the 
youth  might  be  carried  to  his  own  cabin.  He  was  his  country- 
man, he  said  ;  an  officer  of  equal  rank  it  appeared,  from  his 
epaulette,  and  he  should  not  feel  comfortable  were  he  under 
the  care  of  any  other.  On  bearing  him  from  the  deck  to  the 
cabin,  a  small  volume  fell  from  his  loosened  vest,  which  Mor- 
daunt  raised  from  the  ground  with  some  curiosity,  to  know 
what  could  be  so  precious  to  a  youthful  sailor.  It  was  a 
pocket 'Bible,  so  much  resembling  one  Mordaunt  possessed 
himself,  that,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  was  about,  he  drevsr  it 
from  his  pocket  to  compare  them.  "  How  can  I  be  so  silly  ?" 
he  thought;  "is  there  any  thing  strange  in  two  English  Bibles 
resembling  each  other?"  He  replaced  his  own,  opened  the 
other,  and  started  in  increased  amazement.  '•  Charles  Man- 
vers  !"  he  cried,  as  that  name  met  his  eye.  c: 'Merciful  heaven  ! 
who  is  this  youth?  to  whom  would  this  Bible  ever  have  been 
given  ?"  80  great  was  his  agitation,  that  it  was  with  difficulty 
he  read  the  words  which  were  written  beneath. 

"•  Edward  Fortescue  !  oh,  when  will  that  name  rival  his  to 
whom  this  book  once  belonged  ?     I  may  be  as  bravo  a  sailor, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  437 

\ 

but  what  will  make  me  as  good  a  man.  This  Sacred  Book,  ho 
loved  it.  and  so  will  I."  Underneath,  and  evidently  added  at 
a  later  period,  was  the  following : 

"  I  began  to  read  this  for  the  sake  of  those  beloved  ones  to 
whom  I  knew  it  was  all  in  all.  I  thought,  for  its  own  sake,  it 
would  never  have  become  the  dear  and  sacred  volume  they  re- 
garded it,  but  I  am  mistaken  ;  how  often  has  it  soothed  me  in 
my  hour  of  temptation,  guided  me  in  my  duties,  restrained  my 
angry  moments,  and  brought  me  penitent  and  humble  to  the 
footstool  of  my  God?  Oh,  my  beloved  Ellen,  had  this  been 
my  companion  three  years  ago  as  it  is  now,  what  misery  I  should 
have  spared  you." 

Other  memorandums  in  the  same  style  were  written  in  the 
blank  leaves  which  appeared  attached  for  the  purpose,  but  it 
so  happened  that  not  one  of  them  solved  the  mystery  which  so 
completely  puzzled  Mordaunt.  The  name  of  Fortescue  was 
utterly  unknown  to  him,  and  increased  the  mystery  of  the 
youth's  having  produced  such  a  strange  effect  upon  Lis  mind. 
There  were  many  names  introduced  in  these  memorandums, 
but  they  explained  nothing ;  one  only  struck  him,  it  was  one 
which  in  his  hours  of  suifcring,  of  slavery,  ever  sounded  in  his 
ear,  the  fondly-remembered  name  of  her  whom  he  longed  to 
clasp  to  his 'aching  heart — it  was  Emmcline;  and  as  he  read 
it,  the  same  gush  of  memory  came  over  him  as  when  he  first 
gazed  on  Edward.  In  vain  reason  whispered  there  were  many, 
very  many  Emmelines  in  his  native  land ;  that  name  only 
brought  one  to  his  remembrance.  Though  recovering,  the 
youth  was  still  much  too  weak  and  exhausted  to  attempt  speak- 
ing, and  Mordaunt  watched  by  his  couch  for  one  day  and  two 
nights,  ere  the  surgeon  permitted  him  to  ask  a  question  or  Ed- 
ward ko  answer  it.  Often,  however,  during  that  interval,  had 
the  young  stranger  turned  his  bright  blue  eyes  with  a  look  of 
intelligence  and  feeling  on  him  who  attended  him  with  the  care 
of  a  father,  and  the  color,  the  expression  of  those  eyes  seemed 
to  thrill  to  Mordaunt's  heart,  and  speak  even  yet  more  forcibly 
of  days  gone  by. 

';  Let  me  write  but  two  lines,  to  tell  Captain  Seaforth  I  am 
safe  and  well,"  said  Edward  impetuously,  as  he  sprung  with 
renewed  spirits  from  the  couch  on  which  he  had  been  so  long 
an  unwilling  prisoner. 

"  And  how  send  it,  my  young  friend  ?  There  is  not  a  vessel 
within  sight  on  the  wide  sea." 

Edward  uttered  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  then  in- 
stantly checking  himself,  said,  with  a  smile — 


438  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  Forgive  me,  sir ;  I  should  think  only  of  my  merciful 
preservation,  and  of  endeavoring  to  express  in  some  manner 
my  obligations  to  you,  to  whose  generous  exertions,  blessed  aa 
they  were  by  heaven.  I  owe  my  life.  Oh,  would  that  my  aunt 
and  sister  were  near  me,  their  gratitude  for  the  preservation 
of  one  whom  they  perhaps  too  fondly  and  too  partially  love, 
would  indeed  be  gratifying  to  feelings  such  as  yours.  I  can 
feel  what  I  owe  you,  Lieutenant  Mordaunt,  but  I  cannot  ex- 
press myself  sufficiently  in  words." 

"In  the  name  of  heaven,  young  man,  in  pity  tell  me  who 
you  arc  !"  gasped  Mordaunt,  almost  inarticulately,  as  he  grasped 
Edward's  hand  and  gazed  intently  on  his  face ;  for  every  word 
he  spoke,  heightened  by  the  kindling  animation  of  his  features, 
appeared  to  render  that  extraordinary  likeness  yet  more  per- 
fect. 

"  Edward  Fortescue  is  my  name." 

"  But  your  mother's,  boy, — your  mother's  ?  I  ask  not 
from  idle  curiosity." 

"  She  was  the  youngest  daughter  of  Lord  Delmont,  Eleanor 
Manvers." 

Mordaunt  gazed  yet  more  intently  on  the  youth,  then 
hoarsely  murmuring,  "  I  knew  it, — it  was  no  fancy,"  sunk  back 
almost  overpowered  with  momentary  agitation.  Recovering 
himself  almost  instantly,  and  before  Edward  could  give  vent 
to  his  surprise  and  sympathy  in  words,  he  asked,  "  Is  Lord 
Delmont  yet  alive ?  I  knew  him  once;  he  was  a  kind  old 
man."  His  lip  quivered,  so  as  almost  to  prevent  the  articula- 
tion of  his  words. 

"  Oh,  no ;  the  departure  of  my  mother  for  India  was  a 
trial  he  never  recovered,  and  the  intelligence  that  his  only  son, 
a  noble  and  gallant  officer,  perished  with  the  crew  of  the 
Leander,  finally  broke  his  heart ;  he  never  held  up  his  head 
again,  and  died  a  very  few  months  afterwards." 

Mordaunt  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  for  several  mi- 
nutes remained  silent,  as  if  struggling  with  some  powerful  emo- 
tion, then  asked,  "  You  spoke  only  of  your  aunt  and  sister. 
Does  not  your  mother  live  ?" 

"  She  died  when  I  was  little  more  than  eleven  years  old, 
and  my  sister  scarcely  ten.  My  father,  Colonel  Fortescue, 
dying  in  India,  she  could  not  bear  to  remain  there,  but  we 
were  compelled  to  take  refuge  off  the  coast  of  Wales  from  the 
storms  which  had  arisen,  and  then  she  had  only  time  to  give 
us  to  the  care  of  her  sister,  for  whom  she  had  sent;  and  died  in 
Ver  arms." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  439 

"  And  is  it  her  sister,  or  your  father's,  of  whom  you  spoke 
just  now?" 

''  Hers — Mrs.  Hamilton  " 

••  Hamilton,  and  she  lives  still !  you  said  you  knew  her.'' 
repeated  Mordaunt,  suddenly  springing  up  and  speaking  in  a 
tone  of  animation  that  bewildered  Edward  almost  as  much  as 
his  former  agitation.  "  Speak  of  her,  young  man ;  tell  me 
something  of  her.  Oh,  it  is  long  since  I  have  heard  her 
naue." 

"  Did  you  know  my  aunt  ?  I  have  never  heard  her  mentiop 
your  name,  Lieutenant  Mordaunt." 

;-  Very  likely  not,"  he  replied,  and  a  faint  smile  played 
round  his  lip.  creating  an  expression  which  madrf  young  For- 
tescue  start,  for  the  features  seemed  familiar  to  him.  '•  It  was 
only  in  my  boyhood  that  I  knew  her,  and  she  was  kind  to  me. 
We  do  not  easily  forget  the  associations  of  our  boyhood,  my 
young  friend,  particularly  when  manhood  has  been  a  dreary 
blank,  or  tinged  with  pain.  In  my  hours  of  slavery,  the  smile 
and  look  of  Emmeline  Manvers  has  often  haunted  my  waking 
and  my  sleeping  dreams;  but  she  is  married — is  in  all  proba- 
bility a. happy  wife  and  loving  mother;  prosperity  is  around 
her.  and  it  is  most  likely  she  has,  forgotten  the  boy  to  whom 
her  kindness  was  so  dear." 

••  Hours  of  slavery?"  asked  Edward,  for  those  words- had 
alone  riveted  b;s  attention.  "  Can  you,  a  free  and  British 
sailor,  have  ever  been  a  slave  ?" 

"  Even  so,  my  young  friend  ;  for  seven  years  I  languished 
in  the  loathsome  dungeons  of  Algiers,  and  the  last  sixteen 
years  have  been  a  slave." 

Edward  grasoed  his  hand  with  an  uncontrollable  impulse, 
while  at  the  same  moment  he  clenched  his  sword,  and  his  coun- 
tenance expressed  the  powerful  indignation  of  his  young  and 
gallant  spirit,  though  words  for  the  moment  he  had  none. 
Lieutenant  Mordaunt  again  smiled — that  smile,  which  by  some 
indefinable  power  inspired  Edward  with  affection  and  esteem. 

'•  I  am  free  now.  my  gallant  boy,"  he  said  ;  "  free  as  if  the 
galling  fetters  of  slavery  had  never  bowed  down  my  nack.  An- 
other day  you  shall  hear  more.  Now  gratify  me  by  some  ac- 
count of  your  aunt ;  speak  of  her — tell  me  if  she  have  children 
— if  her  husband  still  lives.  If  Mrs.  Hamilton  is  still  the 
panic  go.ptlR  affectionate  being — the  same  firm,  unflinching 
character,  when  duty  called  her,  as  the  Emmeline  Mauvers  it 
tvas  once  uay  joy  to  know." 


440  -       THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

With  an  animation  which  again  riveted  the  eyes  of  Lieuia- 
nant  Mordaunt  on  his  countenance.  Edward  eagerly  entered  on 
the  subject.  No  other  could  have  been  dearer  to  him  ;  Mor- 
daunt could  have  fixed  on  few  which  would  thus  have  called 
forth  the  eloquence  of  his  young  companion.  Sailor  as  he  was. 
truly  enthusiastic  in  his  profession,  yet  home  to  Edward  still 
possessed  invincible  attractions,  and  the  devoted  affection,  gra- 
titude, and  reverence  he  felt  for  his  aunt  appeared  to  increase 
with  his  years.  Neither  Percy  nor  Herbert  could  have  loved 
her  more.  He  spoke  as  he  felt ;  he  tv.ld  of  all  he  owed  her, 
and  not  only  himself  but  his  orphan  sister ;  he  said  that  as  a 
mother  she  had  been  to  them  both,  that  never  once  had  she 
made  the  slightest  difference  between  them  and  her  own  chil- 
dren. He  painted  in  vivid  colors  the  domestic  joys  of  Oak- 
wood,  the  affectionate  harmony  that  reigned  there,  till  Mor- 
daunt felt  his  eyes  glisten  with  emotion,  and  ere  that  conver- 
sation ceased,  all  that  affection  which  for  many  a  long  and 
weary  year  had  pined  for  some  one  on  which  to  expend  its 
force,  now  centred  in  the  noble  youth  of  whose  preservation  he 
had  been  so  strangely  and  providentially  an  instrument.  To 
Edward  it  was  not  in  the  least  strange,  that  any  one  who  had 
once  known  his  aunt,  it  mattered  not  how  many  years  previous, 
should  still  retain  a  lively  remembrance  of  her,  and  wish  to 
know  more  concerning  her,  and  his  feelings  were  strongly  ex- 
cited towards  one  whose  interest  in  all  that  concerned  her  was 
evidently  so  great.  His  first  letter  to  his  family,  which  he 
endorsed  in  one  to  his  captain,  spoke  very  much  of  Lieutenant 
Mordaunt,  wondering  that  his  aunt  had  never  mentioned  ono 
who  remembered  her  so  well.  This  letter,  as  we  know,  was 
never  received,  and  the  next  he  wrote  was  too  hurried  to  enter 
into  particulars,  except  those  that  related  to  himself  alone. 
When  he  again  wrote  home,  he  had  become  so  attached  and  so 
used  to  Mordaunt,  that  he  fancied  he  must  be  as  well  known 
to  his  family  as  himself;  and  though  he  mentioned  his  name 
repeatedly,  he  did  not  think  of  inquiring  any  thing  concerning 
him. 

The  able  activity  as  a  sailor,  the  graceful,  courteous  man- 
ner of  Edward  as  a  man.  soon  won  him  the  hearts  of  Captain 
Bartholomew  and  all  his  crew.  Ever  the  first  when  there  was 
any  thing  to  be  done  on  board  gr  on  shore,  lively,  high-spirited, 
and  condescending,  his  appearance  on  deck  after  any  absence 
Was  generally  acknowledged  with  respect.  The  various  charac- 
ters thus  presented  to  his  notice  in  the  Spanish  crew,  the  many 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  44, 

ports  he  touched  at.  afforded  him  continual  and  exciting  amuse- 
ment,  although  his  thoughts  very  often  lingered  on  his  darling 
"Gem,"  with  the  ardent  desire  to  be  once  more  doing  his  duty 
on  her  decks.  But  amid  all  these  changing  scenes,  Edward 
and  his  friend,  diverse  as  were  their  ages  and  apparently  their 
dispositions,  became  almost  inseparable.  An  irresistible  im- 
pulse urged  Edward  repeatedly  to  talk  to  him  of  his  home,  till 
Mordaunt  became  intimately  acquainted  with  every  member  of 
the  family.  Of  Herbert,  Edward  would  speak  with  enthusi- 
asm ;  he  little  knew,  poor  fellow,  that  the  cousin  whose  charac- 
ter he  almost  venerated  was  gone  to  his  last  home,  that  he 
should  never  see  him  more.  Letters  detailing  that  melancholy 
event  had  been  forwarded  to  the  Gem,  arriving  there  just  one 
week  after  the  young  sailor's  disappearance ;  and,  wnen  in- 
formed of  his  safety,  Captain  Seaforth,  then  on  his  way  to 
England,  had  no  opportunity  of  forwarding  them  to  him.  His 
repeated  mention  of  Herbert  in  his  letters  nome.  his  anxious 
desire  to  hear  something  of  him,  were  most  painful  to  his 
family,  and  Ellen  was  more  than  ever  anxious  he  should  re- 
ceive the  account  ere  he  returned. 

Among  other  subjects  discussed  between  them,  Mordaunt 
once  asked  Edward  who  now  bore  the  tide  of  Lord  Delmont, 
and  had  appeared  somewhat  agitated  when  told  the  title  was 
now  extinct,  and  had  become  so  from  the  melancholy  death  of 
the  promising  young  nobleman  on  whom  it  had  devolved. 

"  Sir  George  Wilmot  is  out  in  his  prognostication  then," 
he  observed,  after  a  pause.  "  I  remember,  when  a  youngster 
under  his  command,  hearing  him  repeatedly  prophesy  that  & 
Dehront  would  revive  the  honor  of  his  ancient  house  by  naval 
fame  Poor  Charles  was  ever  his  favorite  amongst  us." 

••  You  were  my  uncle's  messmate  then,"  said  Edward,  in  a 
tone  of  surprise  and  joy.  "  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  this 
before,  that  I  might  ask  all  the  questions  1  long  to  know  con- 
cerning him  ?" 

"And  what  have  you  heard  of  Charles  to  call  for  this 
extreme  interest  ?"  replied  Mordaunt,  with  his  peculiar  smile. 
'•  I  should  have  thought  that  long  ere  this  my  poor  friend  had 
been  forgotten  in  his  native  land." 

••  Forgotten  !  and  by  a  sister  who  doated  on  him  ;  who  hag 
never  ceased  to  lament  his  melancholy  fate ;  who  ever  held  him 
up  to  my  young  fancy  as  one  of  those  whom  it  should,  be  my 
glory  to  resemble.  Did  you  know  my  aunt,  as  by  two  or  three 
things  I  have  heard  you  say.  I  fancy  you  must,  you  could  never 
19* 


442  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

suspect  her  of  forgetting  one  she  loved  as  she  did  her  brother, 
My  uncle  Charles  is  enshrined  in  her  memory  too  fondly  fin 
time  to  efface  it." 

Tears  rose  to  Mordaunt's  eager  eyes  at  these  words ;  he 
turned  aside  a  moment  to  conceal  his  agitation,  then  asked 
if  Sir  George  Wilmot  ever  spoke  of  Manvers.  Animatedly 
Edward  related  the  old  Admiral's  agitation  the  first  night  he 
had  seen  him  at  Oaiwood ;  how  feelingly  he  had  spoken  of 
one,  whom  he  said  he  had  ever  regarded  as  the  adopted  son  of 
his  affections,  the  darling  of  his  childish  years,  his  gallant, 
merry  Charles.  Mordaunt  twined  his  arm  in  Edward's,  and 
looked  up  in  his  face,  as  if  to  thank  him  for  the  consolation 
his  words  imparted.  Again  there  was  an  expression  in  his 
countenance,  which  sent  a  thrill  to  the  young  man's  heart,  but 
vainly  he  tried  to  discover  wherefore. 

We  may  here  perhaps  relate  in  a  very  few  words  Mor- 
daunt's tale  of  suffering,  which  he  imparted  at  different  times 
to  Edward.  The  wreck  of  the  vessel  to  which  he  belonged 
had  cast  him,  with  one  or  two  others  of  his  hapless  companions, 
on  the  coast  of  Morocco  and  Algiers.  There  they  were  seized 
by  the  cruel  Moors,  and  carried  as  spies  before  the  Dey,  and 
by  his  command  immured  in  the  dungeons  of  the  fortress  where 
many  unhappy  captives  were  also  confined,  and  had  been  for 
many  years.  For  eight  years  he  was  an  inmate  of  these  horri- 
bie  prisons,  a  sickening  witness  of  many  of  those  tortures  and 
cruelties  which  were  inflicted  on  his  fellow-prisoners,  and  often 
on  himself.  All  those  at  all  acquainted  with  the  bombardment 
<u  Algiers,  so  ably  carried  on  by  Admiral  Sir  Edward  Pellew, 
Httoiwaids  Viscount  Exmouth,  an  enterprise  which  was  entered 
on  to  a\ei)ge  the  atrocious  indignities  practised  by  the  Dey  on 
all  the  unfortunate  foreigners  that  visited  his  coast,  can  well 
imagine  the  sufferings  Mordaunt  had  not  only  to  witness  but 
to  endure.  On  the  first  report  of  a  hostile  fleet  appearing  off 
the  coast  of  Burbary,  the  most  active  and  able  of  the  prisoners 
were  marched  out  to  various  markets  and  there  sold  as  slaves. 
Mordaunt  was  oriC  of  these:  imprisonment  and  suffering  had 
not  quenched  his  youthful  spirit,  nor  so  bowed  his  frame  as  to 
render  him  incap&ble  of  energy.  Scarcely  twenty  when  this 
cruel  reverse  of  fortune  overtook  him,  the  tortures  of  his  mind 
during  the  eight,  nearly  nine,  years  of  his  captivity  may  be 
better  conceived  than  described.  He  had  entered  prison  a  boy, 
with  all  the  fresh,  elastic  buoyancy  of  youth,  he  quitted  it  a 
;  but  oh,  how  was  that  manhood's  prime,  to  which  in  his 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  443 

visions  of  futurity  he  had  looked  with  such  bright  anticipation 
as  the  zenith  of  his  naval  fame,  now  about  to  pass?  as  a  slave ; 
exposed  to  increased  oppression  and  indignity  on  account  of 
his  reHgion,  which  he  had  inwardly  vowed  never  to  give  up. 
He  secured  the  Bible,  which  had  first  been  a  treasure  to  him 
merely  as  the  gift  of  a  beloved  sister,  and  throughout  all  his 
change  of  destiny  it  was  never  taken  from  him.  To  submit 
calmly  to  slavery.  Mordaunt  felt  at  first  his  spirit  never  could, 
and  various  were  the  schemes  he  planned,  and  in  part  executed, 
towards  obtaining  his  freedom,  but  all  were  eventually  frus- 
trated by  the  observation  of  his  masters,  who  were  toe  well  ac- 
customed to  insubordination  on  the  part  of  their  slaves  for 
such  attempts  to  cause  them  much  trouble  or  uneasiness.  Still 
Mordaunt  despaired  not ;  still  was  the  hope  of  freedom  upper- 
most in  his  breast,  even  when  he  became  the  property  of  a  Turk, 
who.  had  he  been  but  a  Christian,  Mordaunt  declared,  must 
have  commanded  his  reverence  if  not  his  affection.  Five  times 
lie  had  been  exposed  for  sale,  and  each  master  had  appeared  to 
him  more  cruel  and  oppressive  than  the  last.  To  relate  all  he 
sulfered  would  occupy  a  much  larger  portion  of  our  tale  than 
we  could  allow,  but  they  were  such  that  any  one  but  Mordaunt 
would  have  felt  comparative  contentment  and  happiness  when 
changed  fur  the  service  of  Mahommed  All.  an  officer  of  emi- 
nence in  the  court  of  Tunis.  He  was  indeed  one  who  might 
well  exemplify  the  assertion,  that  in  all  religions  there  is  some 
good.  Suffering  and  sorrow  were  aliens  from  his  roof,  misery 
approached  not  his  doors,  and  Mordaunt  had,  in  fact,  been  pur- 
chased from  motives  of  compassion,  which  his  evident  wretch- 
edness, both  bodilf  and  mental,  had  excited;  to  cure  Ins  bodily 
ills  no  kindly  attention  was  spared,  but  vainly  Mahommed  Ali 
sought  to  lessen  the  load  of  anguish  he  saw  imprinted  on  the 
brow  of  his  Christian  captive.  Mordaunt's  noble  spirit  was 
touched  by  the  indulgence  and  kindness  he  received,  and  he 
made  no  effort  to  escape,  for  he  felt  it  would  be  lut  an  un- 
generous, dishonoruble  return — but  still  he  was  a  slave.  No 
fetters  galled  his  limbs,  but  the  fetters  of  slavery  galled  hia 
spirit  with  a  deeper  anguish  ;  no  task-master  was  now  set  over 
him  with  the  knotted  whip,  to  spur  on  each  slackening  effort; 
but  the  groan  which  no  bodily  suffering  could  wring,  whuh  he 
had  suppressed,  lest  his  persecutors  should  triumph,  now  burst 
from  his  sorrowing  heart,  and  scalding  drops  stole  down  hia 
cheeks,  when  he  deemed  no  eye  was  near.  Slavery,  slavery 
seemed  his  for  ever,  and  each  fond  vision  of  his  native  land  and 
all  he  loved  but  added  to  the  burden  on  his  soul 


444  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Mahommed  at  length  became  so  deeply  interested  in  his 
Christian  slave,  that  he  offered  him  freedom,  wealth,  distinc- 
tion, his  own  friendship  and  suuport,  all  on  the  one,  he  thought, 
simple  and  easy  condition  of  giving  up  his  country  ami  his 
faith,  and  embracing  the  one  holy  creed  of  Mahomet.  In  kind- 
ness was  the  offer  made,  but  mournfully,  yet  with  a  steadiness 
that  gave  no  hope  of  change,  was  it  refused  ;  vainly  Mahomet 
urged  the  happiness  its  acceptance  would  bring,  that  he  knew 
not  all  he  so  rashly  refused  ;  still  he  wavered  not,  and  Ali  with 
a  weary  heart  gave  up  the  attempt.  Time  passed,  but  its 
fleeting  years  reconciled  not  Mordaunt  to  his  situation,  nor 
lessened  the  kindly  interest  he  excited  in  the  heart  of  the  good 
old  man  ;  and  when  at  length  it  happened  tli.it  Mordaunt. 
almost  unconsciously  to  himself,  became  the  fortunate  instru- 
ment of  reconciling  some  affairs  of  his  master,  which  were  in 
confusion,  and  had  been  so  for  years,  when,  among  many  other 
unexpected  services  which  it  had  been  in  his  power  to  perform, 
he  rescued  the  favorite  son  of  Mahommed  from  an  infuriated 
tiger,  which  had  unexpectedly  spru«g  upon  .liin  during  a  hunt- 
ing expedition,  the  old  man  could  contain  his  wishes  no  longer, 
but  gave  him  his  freedom  on  the  spot.  Unconditional  liberty 
to  return  to  his  native  land  was  very  soon  after  accorded,  and 
loading  him  with  rich  gifts.  Ali  himself  accompanied  him  to 
the  deck  of  the  Alma,  which  was  the  only  vessel  then  starting 
from  the  coast  of  Guinea,  where  Mahommed  in  general  resided. 
Mordaunt  was  too  impatient  to  wait  for  an  English  vessel,  nor 
did  he  wish  to  incur  i  Je  risk  of  encountering  any  hostile  to  his 
interests/  by  crossing  the  country  and  embarking  from  Algiers 
or  Tunis.  While  in  Africa  he  felt  that  thg  chain  of  slavery 
still  hovered  round  his  neck.  He  could  not  feel  himself  once 
more  a  freeborn  Briton  till  he  was  indeed  on  the  bounding 
ocean. 

Once  on  the  way  to  Europe,  there  was  hope,  even  though 
that  way  was  by  America.  He  parted  from  his  former  master, 
now  his  friend,  with  a  feeling  of  regret;  but  the  fresh  breezes, 
the  consciousness  he  stood  on  deck  free  as  the  wind,  free  as 
the  ocean  that  bore  him  onward  to  his  native  land,  removed 
from  his  mind  all  lingering  dread,  and  filled  his  soul  with  joy; 
but  the  human  heart  is  not  now  in  a  state  to  feel  for  any  length 
of  time  unchecked  happiness.  Four-and-twenty  years  had 
elapsed  since  Mordaunt  had  been  imagined  dead  ;  six-nnd 
twenty  since  he  had  departed  from  his  native  land,  and  haJ 
iast  beheld  his  friends  he  so  dearly  loved.  He  might  return 


TOE  MOTHER'S  HECOMPEXSE.  445 

and  be  by  aU  considered  an  intruder,  perhaps  not  recognized, 
his  tale  not  believed  ;  he  might  see  his  family  scattered,  all  of 
them  with  new  ties,  new  joys,  and  with  no  place  for  the  long- 
absent  exi!e.  The  thought  was  anguish,  but  Mordaunt  had 
weakly  indulged  it  too  long  to  enable  him  at  first  to  conquer 
it,  even  when  Edward's  tale  of  the  fond  remembrance  in  which 
"uis  uncle  was  held  by  all  who  had  loved  him,  unconsciously 
penetrated  his  soul  with  a  sense  of  the  injustice  he  had  done 
his  friends,  and  brought  consolation  with  it. 

These  facts,  which  we  have  so  briefly  thrown  together, 
formed  most  interesting  subjects  to  Edward  many  times  dur- 
ing his  voyage  to  New- York.  Edward  hung  as  in  fascination 
on  the  stranger's  history,  innate  nobleness  was  stamped  in 
evory  word.  More  than  once  the  thought  struck  him  that  he 
was  more  than  what  he  appeared  to  be,  but  Edward  knew  he 
had  a  slight  tendency  towards  romance  in  his  composition,  and 
fearful  of  lowering  himself  in  the  estimation  of  his  new-found 
friend  by  the  avowal  of  such  fanciful  sentiments,  he  kept  them 
to  himself. 

At  length  the  wished  for  port  to  both  "the  Englishmen 
(New- York)  was  gained,  and  their  passage  secured  in  the  first 
packet  sailing  for  England.  Edward's  heart  beat  high  with 
anticipated  pleasure;  he  longed  to  introduce  his  new  friend  to 
his  family,  and  his  bright  anticipations  shed  a  kindred  glow 
over  the  mind  of  Mordaunt,  who  had  now  become  so  devotedly 
attached  to  the  youth,  that  he  could  scarcely  bear  him  out  of 
his  sight :  and  had  he  wanted  fresh  incentive  to  affect  ion.»the 
deep  affliction  of  the  young  sailor  on  receiving  the  intelligence 
of  Ins  cousin  Herbert's  death,  would  have  been  sufficient.  Ed- 
ward had  one  day  sought  the  post-office,  declaring,  however, 
that  it  was  quite  impossible  such  increased  joy  could  be  in 
store  for  him.  as  a  letter  from  home.  There  were  two  instead 
of  one :  one  from  his  aunt  and  uncle,  the  other  from  his  sister  ; 
th  •>  black  seal  painfully  startled  him.  Mourning  for  poor  Mary 
is  over  long  ere  this,  he  thought,  and  scarcely  had  he  strength 
to  break  the  seal,  and  when  he  had  read  the  fatal  news,  he  sat 
for  some  time  as  if  overwhelmed  with  the  sudden  and  unex- 
pected blow. 

Mordaunt's  words  of  consolation  fell  at  first  unheeded  on 
his  ear:  it  was  not  for  Herbert  alone  he  sorrowed,  it  was  for 
his  aunt.  He  knew  how  devotedly  she  loved  her  son.  and 
though  she  did  not  write  much  on  the  actual  loss  she  had  sus- 
.  yet  every  word  seemed  to  reach  his  heart,  and  Edward 


446  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

leaned  his  head  upon  the  paper,  and  wept  like  a  child.  Her 
bert,  the  bright,  the  good,  the  gentle  companion  of  his  boy- 
hood, the  faithful  friend  of  his  maturer  years,  had  he  indeed 
gone — his  place  would  know  him  no  more?  And  oh.  how 
desolate  must  Oakwood  seem.  Percy,  though  in  affection  for 
his  parents  and  his  family,  in  his  devoted  attention  to  tlieir 
comfort,  equalled  only  by  his  brother,  yet  never  could  he  be 
to  Oakwood  as  Herbert.  He  was  as-  the  brilliant  plant,  shed- 
ding lustre  indeed  on  all  over  whom  it  gleamed,  but  never  still, 
continually  roving,  changing  its  course,  as  if  its  light  would  bo 
more  glittering  from  such  unsteady  movements ;  but  Herbert 
was  as  the  mild  and  lucid  star,  stationary  in  its  appointed  or- 
bit, gilding  all  things  with  its  mellow  light,  but  darting  it? 
most  intense  and  radiant  lustre  on  that  home  which  was  to 
him  indeed  the  centre-point  of  love.  Such  was  the  description 
of.  his  two  cousins  given  by  Edward  to  his  sympathizing  com- 
panion, and  Mordaunt  looked  on  the  young  sailor  in  wonder 
ing  admiration.  Eagerly,  delightedly,  he  had  perused  the  let- 
ters, which  Edward  intrusted  to  him  ;  that  of  Mrs.  Hamilton 
was  pressed  to  his  lips,  but  engrossed  in  his  own  thoughts.  Ed- 
ward observed  him  not.  Sadness  lingered  on  Edward's  heart 
during  the  whole  of  that  voyage  homeward  ;  his  conversation 
was  tinged  with  the  same  spirit,  but  it  brought  out  so  many 
points  of  his  character,  which  in  his  joyous  moods  Mordaunt 
never  could  have  discovered,  that  the  links  of  that  strangely- 
aroused  affection  became  even  stronger  than  before.  Edward 
retufncd  his  regard  with  all  the  warmth  of  his  enthusiastic 
nature,  strengthened  by  the  manner  in  which  his  letters  from 
home  alluded  to  Lieutenant  Mordaunt  as  his  preserver ;  and 
before  their  voyage  was  completed,  Mordaunt.  in  compliance 
with  the  young  man's  earnest  entreaty,  consented  to  accompany 
him,  in  the  first  place,  to  Richmond,  whence  Edward  promised, 
after  introducing  him  to  his  family,  and  finding  him  a  safe  har- 
bor there,  he  would  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  discover  every 
possible  information  concerning  Mordaunt's  family.  That 
same  peculiar  smile  curled  the  stranger's  lips  as  Edward  thua 
animatedly  spoke,  and  he  promised  unqualified  compliance. 

Having  thus  brought  Edward  and  his  friend  within  but  a 
few  weeks'  voyage  to  England,  we  may  now  leave  them  and 
return  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who  were  both  rejoicing  in 
the  improved  looks  of  their  niece  at  Richmond. 

The  delightful  calmness  of  their  beautiful  retreat,  the  sus- 
pension of  all  anxiety,  the  total  change  of  scene  which  vras 


•  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  447 

around  them,  had  done  much  towards  restoring  peace,  not  only 
to  Ellen  but  to  her  aunt.  The  feeling  that  she  was  now  in« 
deed  called  upon  to  fulfil  the  promise  she  had  made  to  Her 
bert,  that  the  enjoyment  and  cheerfulness  of  home  depended 
on  her  alone,  had  insp^ed  exertions  which  had  partially  ena- 
bled her  to  conquer  her  own  grief ;  and  every  week  seemed  to 
bring  forward  some  new  quality,  of  which  her  relatives  imag- 
ined they  must  have  been  ignorant  before.  Ellen's  character 
was  one  not  to  attract  at  first,  but  to  win  affection  slcwly  but 
surely  ;  her  merits  were  not  dazzling,  it  was  generally  long  be- 
fore they  were  all  discovered,  but  when  they  were,  they  ever 
commanded  reverence  and  love.  In  all  her  children  Mrs. 
Hamilton  felt  indeed  her  cares  fully  repaid,  and  in  Ellen  more, 
far  more  than  she  had  ventured  to  anticipate.  Thus  left  alone 
in  her  filial  cares,  Ellen's  character  appeared  different  to  what 
it  had  been  when  one  of  many.  Steady,  quiet  cheerfulness 
was  restored  to  the  hearts  of  all  who  now  composed  the  small 
domestic  circle  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  family;  each  had  their  pri- 
vate moments  when  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  their  beloved  Her- 
bert was  indeed  recalled  in  all  its  bitterness,  but  such  sacred 
hours  never  were  permitted  to  tinge  their  daily  lives  with 
gloom. 

They  were  now  in  daily  expectation  of  St.  Eval's  return 
to  England,  with  Miss  Manvers,  who,  at  Mrs.  Hamilton's  pat- 
ticular  request,  was  to  join  their  family  party.  An  under-* 
standing  had  taken  place  between  her  and  Percy,  but  not  yet 
did  either  intend  their  engagement  to  be  known.  The  sym- 
pathy and  affection  of  Louisa  were  indeed  most  soothing  to 
Percy  in  this  affliction,  which,  even  when  months  had  passed, 
he  could  not  conquer,  but  he  could  not  think  of  entering  into 
the  bonds  of  marriage,  even  with  the  woman  he  sincerely 
loved,  til1  his  heart  could,  in  some  degree,  recover  the  deep 
wound  which  the  death  of  his  only  brother  had  so  painfully 
inflicted.  To  his  parents  indeed,  and  all  his  family,  he  re- 
vealed his  engagement,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  anxiously 
anticipated  the  return  of  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Eval.  to  intro- 
duce them  to  the  intended  bride  of  their  only  son.  Their  in 
tention  was  to  remain  at  Richmond  till  the  spring,  when  Ar- 
thur and  his  wife  would  pay  their  promised  visit  at  Oakwood, 
instead  of  spending  the  Christmas  with  them — an  arrange- 
ment Emmeline  had  herself  suggested ;  because,  she  said,  if 
ghe  and  her  husband  were  away,  the  family  party  which  had 
ever  assembled  at  Oakwood  during  that  festive  season  would  be 


448  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

broken  up,  and  Herbert's  absence  be  less  painfully  felt.  Mrs 
Hamilton  noticed  it  to  none,  but  her  penetration  discovered 
the  cause  of  this  change  in  Emmeline's  intentions,  and  teara 
of  delicious  feeling  filled  her  eyes,  as  for  a  moment  she  per- 
mitted that  gentle  and  affectionate  girl%  occupy  that  thought 
which  she  was  about  to  bestow  on  Herbert. 

'•  We  have  received  interesting  news  this  morning,  my  dear 
Arthur,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  said,  as  her  husband  entered  the  par- 
lor, where  she  and  Ellen  were  seated.  "  Lucy  Harcourt  is 
returning  to  England,  and  has  requested  us  to  look  out  for  a 
little  cottage  for  her  near  Oakwood.  The  severe  illness,  and 
finally  the  death  of  her  cousin,  Mr.  Seymour,  has  been  the 
cause  of  my  not  hearing  from  her  so  long.  Poor  fellow,  he  hag 
been  for  so  many  years  such  a  sad  sufferer,  that  a  peaceful 
death  must  indeed  be  a  blessed  release." 

;c  It  was  a  peaceful  death,  Lucy  writes,  mournfully  but  re 
signedly ;  she  says  she  cannot  be  sufficiently  thankful  that  he 
was  spared  long  enough  to  see  his  daughters  would  both  be 
happy  under  her  charge.  That  she  had  gained  their  young 
affections,  and  that,  as  far  as  mortal  eye  could  see.  by  leaving 
them  entirely  under  her  guardianship  and  maternal  care,  he 
had  provided  for  their  happiness.  He  said  this  almost  with 
his  last  breath ;  and  poor  Lucy  says  that,  among  her  many 
consolations  in  this  trying  time,  this  assertion  was  not  one  of 
the  least  precious  to  her  heart." 

"  No  doubt  it  was.  To  be  the  friend  and  adopted  mother 
of  his  children  miust  be  one  of  the  many  blessings  created  for 
herself  by  her  noble  conduct  in  youth.  I  am  glad  now  my 
prophecy  was  not  verified,  and  that  she  never  became  his 
wife." 

"  Did  you  ever  think  she  would,  uncle?"  asked  Ellen,  sur- 
p-ised. 

'•  I  fancied  Seymour  must  have  discovered  her  affection, 
and  then  admiration  on  his  part  would  have  done  the  rest.  It 
is,  I  own,  much  better  as  it  is;  his  children  will  love  her  more, 
regarding  her  in  the  light  of  his  sister  and  their  aunt,  than 
had  she  become  their  stepmother.  But  why  did  you  seem  so 
•  surprised  at  my  prophecy,  Nelly?  Was  there  any  thing  very 
impossible  in  their  union?" 

"  Not  impossible ;  but  I  do  not  think  it  likely  Miss  Har- 
court would  have  betrayed  her  affection,  at  the  very  time  when 
she  was  endeavoring  to  soothe  her  cousin  for  the  loss  of  a  be- 
loved wife.  She  was  much  more  likely  to  conceal  it;  even  more 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  449 

effectually  than  she  had  ever  done  before.  Nor  do  I  think  it 
probable  Mr.  Seymour,  accustomed  from  his  very  earliest 
years  to  regard  her  as  a  sister,  could  ever  succeed  in  looking 
on  her  in  any  other  light." 

"  You  seem  well  skilled  in  the  history  of  the  human  heart, 
my  little  Ellen,"  said  her  uncle,  smiling.  "  Do  you  think  it 
then  quite  impossible  for  cousins  to  love?" 

Ellen  bent  lower  over  her  embroidery -frame,  for  she  felt  a 
tell-tale  blush  was  rising  to  her  cheek,  and  without  looking  up, 
repUed,  calmly, 

'•Miss  Harcourt  is  a  proof  that  such  love  can  and  docs 
exist — more  often,  perhaps,  in  a  woman's  heart.  In  a  man 
seldom,  unless  educated  and  living  entirely  apart  from  each 
other." 

"  I  think  you  arc  right,  Ellen,"  said  her  aunt.  "  I  never 
thought,  with  your  uncle,  that  Lucy  would  become  Mr.  Sey- 
jnour's  wife." 

"  Had  I  prophesied  such  a  thing,  uncle"  what  would  you 
have  called  me  ?"  said  Ellen,  looking  up  archly  from  her  frame, 
for  the  momentary  flush  had  gone. 

"  That  it  was  the  prophecy  of  a  most  romantic  young  lady, 
much  more  like  Emineline's  heroics  than  the  quiet,  sober 
Ellen,"  he  answered,  in  the  same  tone;  ':  but  as  my  own  idea, 
of  course  it  is  wisdom  itself.  But  jokes  apart,  as  you  are  so 
skilled  in  the  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  my  dear  Ellen, 
you  must  know  I  entered  this  room  to-day  for  the  purpose  of 
probing  your  own." 

'•  Mine  !"  exclaimed  the  astonished  girl,  turning  suddenly 
pale  ;  "  what  do  }rou  mean  ?" 

"  Only  that  the  Ilev.  Ernest  Lacy  has  been  with  me  this 
morning,  entreating  my  permission  to  address  you, 'and  indeed 
making  proposals  for  your  hand.  I  told  him  that  my  permis- 
sion he  could  have,  with  my  earnest  wishes  for  his  success,  and 
that  I  did  not  doubt  your  aunt's  consent  would  be  as  readily 
given.  Do  not  look  so  terribly  alarmed  ;  I  told  him  I  could 
not  let  the  matter  proceed  any  farther  without  first  speaking  to 
you." 

"  Pray  let  it  go  no  farther,  then,  my  dear  uncle."  said  Ellen, 
very  earnestly,  as  her  needle  fell  from  her  hand,  and  she  turned 
her  eyes  beseechingly  on  her  uncle's  face.  "I  thank  Mr.  Lacy 
for  the  -high  opinion  he  must  have  of  me  in  making  me  this 
offer,  but  indeed  I  cannot  accept  it.  Do  not.  by  your  consent, 
let  him  encourage  hopes  which  must  end  in  disappointment." 


450  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  My  approbation  I  cannot  withdraw,  Ellen,  for  most  sin 
cerely  do  I  esteem  the  young  man ;  and  tliere  are  few  whom  1 
would  sc  gladly  behold  united  to  my  family  as  himself.  Why 
do  you  so  positively  refuse  to  hear  him?  You  may  not  know 
him  sufficiently  now,  I  grant  you,  to  love  him,  yet  believe  me, 
tlie  more  you  know  him  the  more  will  you  find  in  him  both  to 
esteem  and  love." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  dear  uncle.  He  is  one  among  the 
young  men  who  visit  here  whom  I  most  highly  esteem,  and  T 
should  be  sorry  to  lose  his  friendship  by  the  refusal  of  his  hand  " 

•:  But  why  not  allow  him  to  plead  for  himself?  You  are 
not  one  of  those  romantic  beings.  Ellen,  who  often  refuse  an 
excellent  offer,  because  they  imagine  they  are  not  violently  in 
love." 

"  Pray  do  not  condemn  me  as  such,  my  dear  uncle  ;  indeed, 
it  is  not  the  case.  Mr.  Lacy,  the  little  I  know  of  him,  appears 
to  possess  every  virtue  calculated  to  make  an  excellent  husband. 
I  know  no  fault  to  which  I  can  bring  forward  any  objection  : 
but"— 

u  But  what,  my  dear  niece?  Surely,  you  are  not  afraid  of 
speaking  freely  before  your  aunt  and  myself?" 

"No,  uncle;  but  I  have  little  to  say  except  that  I  have  no 
wish  to  marry ;  that  it  would  be  more  pain  to  leave  you  and 
my  aunt  than  marriage  could  ever  compensate  " 

"  Why,  Nelly,  do  you  mean  to  devote  yourself  to  UP  all 
your  young  life,  old  and  irritable  as  we  shall  in  all  probability 
become?  think  again,  my  dear  girl;  many  enjoyments,  much 
happiness,  as  far  as  human  eye  can  see,  await  the  wife  of  Lacy. 
Emmelme,  you  are  silent;  do  you  not  agree  with  me  in  wish- 
ing to  behold  our  gentle  Ellen  the  wife  of  one  so  universally 
beloved  as  this  young  clergyman  ?" 

';  Not  if  her  wishes  lead  her  to  remain  with  us,  my  hus- 
band," replied  Mrs.  Hamilton,  impressively.  She  had  not 
spoken  before,  for  she  had  been  too  attentively  observing  the 
fluctuation  of  Ellen's  countenance  ;  but  now  her  tone  was  such 
as  to  check  the  forced  smile  with  which  her  niece  had  tried  to 
reply  to  Mr.  Hamilton's  suggestion  of  becoming  old  and  irri- 
table, and  bring  the  painfully-checked  tears  back  to  her  eyes, 
too  powerfully  to  be  restrained.  She  tried  to  retain  her  calm- 
ness, but  the  effort  was  vain,  and  springing  from  her  seat,  she 
flew  to  the  couch  where  her  aunt  sat,  and  kneeling  by  her  side, 
buried  her  face  on  her  shoulder,  and  murmured,  almost  ia- 
audibly, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  451 

*'  Oh,  do  not,  do  not  bid  me  leave  you,  I  am  happy  here ; 
but  elsewhere,  oh.  I  should  be  so  very,  very  wretched.  I  own 
Mr.  Lacy  is  all  that  I  could  wish  for  in  a  husband  ;  precious, 
indeed,  would  be  his  love  to  any  girl  who  could  return  it.  but 
not  to  mo;  oh,  not  to  one  who  can  give  him  nothing  in  return." 

She  paused  abruptly ;  the  crimson  had  mounted  to  both  cheek 
and  brow,  and  the  choking  sob  prevented  farther  utterance. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  pressed  her  lips  to  Ellen's  heated  brow 
in  silence,  while  her  husband  looked  at  his  niece  in  silent 
amazement. 

'•  Are  your  affections  then  given  to  another,  my  dear  child?" 
he  said,  gently  and  tenderly ;  "  but  why  this  overwhelming 
erief,  my  Ellen  ?  Surely,  you  do  not  believe  we  could  thwart 
the  happiness  of  one  so  dear  to  us,  by  refusing  our  consent  to 
the  man  of  your  choice,  if  he  be  worthy  of  you  ?  Speak  then, 
my  dear  girl,  without  reserve  ;  who  has  so  secretly  gained  your 
young  affections,  that  for  his  sake  every  other  is  rejected?" 

Ellen  raised  her  head  and  looked  mournfully  in  her  uncle's 
face.  She  tried  to  obey,  but  voice  for  a  moment  failed. 

-  Uly  lore  is  given  to  the  dead"  she  murmured  at  length, 
clasping  her  aunt's  hands  in  hers,  the  words  slowly  falling  from 
her  parched  lips :  then  added,  hurriedly,  "  oh,  do  not  reprove 
my  weakness ;  I  thought  my  secret  never  would  have  passed 
my  lips  in  life,  but  wherefore  should  I  hide  it  now?  It  is  no 
sin  to  love  the  dead,  though  had  he  lived,  never  would  I  have 
ceased  to  struggle  till  this  wild  pang  was  conquered,  till  calmly 
I  could  have  beheld  him  happy  with  the  wife  of  his  choice,  of 
his  love.  Oh,  condemn  me  not  for  loving  one  who  never 
thought  of  me  save  as  a  sister;  one  whom  I  knew  fi  om  his 
boyhood  loved  another.  None  on  earth  can  tell  how  I  have 
struggled  to  subdue  myself.  I  knew  not  my  own  heart  till  it 
was  too  late  to  school  it  into  apathy.  He  has  gone,  but  while 
my  heart  still  clingn  to  Herbert  .only,  oh,  can  I  give  my  hand 
unto  another?"  • 

:'  Herbert  !"  burst  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  at  the 
same  instant,  and  Ellen,  turning  from  their  glance,  hid  her 
flushing  and  paling  cheek,  in  her  hands;  for  a  moment  there 
was  silence,  and  then  Mrs.  Hamilton  drew  the  agitated  girl 
closer  to  her,  and  murmuring,  in  a  tone  of  intense  feeling, 
"  my  poor,  poor  Ellen  !"  mingled  a  mother's  tear3  with  those 
of  her  niece.  Mr.  Hamilton  looked  on  them  both  with  ex- 
treme emotion  ;  his  mind's  eye  rapidly  glanced  over  the  past, 
ind  in  an  instant  he  saw  what  a  heavy  load  of  suffering  must 


452  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

have  been  his  niece's  portion  from  the  first  moment  she  awoke 
to  the  consciousness  of  her  ill-fated  love ;  and  how  had  she 
borne  it?  so  uncomplainingly,  so  cheerfully,  that  no  one  could 
suspect  that  inward  sorrow.  When  cheering  himself  and  his 
wife  under  their  deep  affliction,  it  was  with  her  own  heart 
breaking  all  the  while.  When  inciting  Herbert  to  exertion, 
during  that  painful  trial  occasioned  by  his  Mary's  letter,  when 
doing  every  thing  in  her  power  to  secure  his  happiness,  what 
must  have  been  her  own  feelings?  Yes, in  very  truth  she  had 
loved — loved  with  all  the  purity,  the  self-devotedness  of 
woman;  and  Mr.  Hamilton  felt  that  which  at  the  moment  he 
could  not  speak.  He  raised  his  niece  from  the  ground,  where 
she  still  knelt  beside  her  aunt,  folded  her  to  his  bosom,  kissed 
her  tearful  cheek,  and  placing  her  in  Mrs.  Hamilton's  arms, 
hastily  left  the  room. 

The  same  thoughts  had  likewise  occupied  the  mind  of  her 
aunt,  as  Ellen  still  seemed  to  cling  to  her  for  support  and  com- 
fort; but  they  were  mingled  with  a  sensation  almost,  amount- 
ing to  self-reproach  at  her  own  blindness  in  not  earlier  discov- 
ering the  truth.  Why  not  imagine  Ellen's  affection's  fixed  on 
Herbert  as  on  Arthur  Myrvin  ?  both  were  equally  probable. 
She  could  now  well  understand  Ellen's  agitation  when  Her- 
bert's engagement  with  Mary  was  published,  when  he  performed 
the  marriage  ceremony  for  Arthur  and  Emmeline ;  and  when 
Mrs.  Hamilton  recalled  bow  completely  Ellen  had  appeared  to 
forget  herself,  in  devoteducss  to  her ;  how,  instead  of  weakly 
sinking  beneath  her  severe  trials,  she  had  borne  up  through 
all.  had  suppressed  her  own  suffering  to  alleviate  those  of  oth- 
ers, was-it  strange  that  admiration  and  respect  should  mingle 
with  the  love  she  bore  her?  that  from  that  hour  Ellen  ap- 
peared dearer  to  her  aunt  than  she  had  ever  done  before  ?  Nor 
was  it  only  on  this  account  her  affection  increased.  For  the 
sake  of  her  beloved  son  it  was  that  her  niece  refused  to  marry; 
for  love  of  him,  even  though  he  had  departed,  her  heart  re- 
jected every  other  love ;  and  the  fond  mother,  unconsciously, 
felt  soothed,  consoled.  It  seemed  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of 
her  sainted  boy,  that  he  was  thus  beloved,  and  she  who  had 
thus  loved  him — oh,  was  there  not  some  new  and  precious  link 
between  them  ? 

It  \vas  some  time  before  either  could  give  vent  in  words  to 
the  feelings  that  swelled  within.  Ellen's  tears  fell  fast  and 
unrestrainedly  on  the  bosom  of  her  aunt,  who  sought  not  to 
ehock  them,  for  she  knew  how  blessed  they  must  be  to  one  who 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  453 

60  seldom  wept ;  and  they  were  blessed,  for  a  heavy  weight 
seemed  removed  from  the  orphan's  heart,  the  torturing  secret 
was  revealed;  she  might  weep  now  without  restraint,  and 
never  more  would  her  conduct  appear  mysterious  either  to  her 
aunt  or  uncle.  They  now  knew  it  was  no  caprice  that  bade 
her  refuse  every  offer  of  marriage  that  was  made  her.  How 
that  treasured  secret  had  escaped  her  she  knew  not.  She  had 
been  carried  on  by  an  impulse  she  could  neither  resist  nor  un- 
derstand. At  the  first,  a  sensation  of  shame  had  overpowered 
her.  that  she  could  thus  have  given  words  to  an  unrequited  af- 
fection ;  but  ere  long,  the  gentle  soothing  of  her  aunt  caused 
that  painful  feeling  to  pass  away.  Consoling,  indeea.  was  the 
vo.ce  of  sympathy  on  a  subject  which  to  another  e&i  had  never 
been  disclosed.  It  was  some  little  time  ere  she  could  conquer 
her  extreme  agitation,  her  overcharged  heart,  released  from  its 
rigorous  restraint,  appeared  to  spurn  all  effort  of  control;  but 
after  that  day  no  violent  emotion  disturbed  the  calm  serenity 
that  resumed  its  sway.  Never  again  was  the  subject  alluded 
to  in  that  little  family  circle,  but  the  whole  conduct  of  her  aunt 
and  uncle  evinced  that  they  felt  for  and  with  their  Ellen  ;  con- 
fidence increased  between  them,  and  after  the  first  few  days, 
the  orphan's  life  was  more  calmly  happy  than  it  had  been  for 
many  a  long  year. 

The  return  of  Lord  St.  Eval's  family  to  England,  and  their 
meeting  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  was  attended  with  some 
alloy.  Caroline  and  her  parents  had  not  met  since  the  death 
of  Herbert,  and  that  affliction  appeared  at  the  first  moment 
recalled  in  all  its  bitterness.  The  presence  of  a  comparative 
stranger,  as  was  Miss  Manvers.  did  much  towards  calming  the 
excited  feelings  of  each,  and  the  exertions  of  Lord  St.  Eval 
am1  Ellen  restored  composure  and  cheerfulness  sooner  thau 
they  could  have  anticipated. 

*"\Vith  Miss  Manvers  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  much  pleased. 
Gentle  and  unassuming,  she  won  her  way  to  every  heart  that 
knew  her;  she  was  the  only  remaining  scion  of  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton's own  famil}.  and  she  felt  pleased  that  by  her  union  with 
Percy  the  families  of  Manvers  and  Hamilton  would  be  yet 
more  closely  connected.  She  had  regretted  much,  at  a  former 
time,  the  extinction  of  the  line  of  Dclmont :  for  she  had  re- 
called those  visions  of  her  girlhood,  when  she  had  looked  to 
her  brother  to  support  the  ancient  line,  and  gilding  it  with 
naval  honors,  bid  it  stand  forth  as  it  had  done  some  centuries 
before.  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  but  little  of  what  is  termed  family 


454  IHE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

pride,  but  these  feelings  were  associated  with  the  brother 
whom  she  had  so  dearly  loved,  arid  whose  loss  she  so  painfully 
deplored. 

The  season  of  Christmas  passed  more  cheerfully  than  Ellen 
had  hoped  for.  The  scene  had  entirely  changed  ;  never  before 
had  they  passed  a  Christmas  any  where  but  at  Oakwood,  and 
that  simple  circumstance  prevented  the  void  in  that  domestic 
circle  from  being  so  sadly  felt.  That  Herbert  was  in  the 
thoughts  of  all  his  family,  that  it  was  an  effort  for  them  to  re- 
tain the  cheerfulness  which  in  them  was  ever  the  characteris- 
tic of  the  season,  we  will  not  deny,  but  afflictioc  ,ook  not  from 
the  calm  beauty  which  ever  rested  round  Mr.  Hamilton's 
hearth.  All  appeared  as  if  an  even  more  hallowed  and  mel- 
lowed light  was  cast  around  them  ;  for  it  displayed,  even  more 
powerfully  than  Avhen  unalloyed  prosperity  was  their  portion, 
the  true  beauty  of  the  religious  character.  Herbert  and  Mary 
were  not  lost  to  them  ;  they  were  but  removed  to  another 
sphere,  the  eternal  Home,  to  which  all  who  loved  them  looked 
with  an  eye  of  faith. 

Sir  George  Wilmot  was  the  only  guest  at  Richmond  dur- 
ing the  Christmas  season,  but  so  long  had  he  been  a  friend  of 
the  family  and  of  Lord  Delmont's,  when  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  a 
mere  child,  that  he  could  scarcely  be  looked  on  in  the  light  of 
a  mere  guest.  The  kind  old  man  had  sorrowed  deeply  for 
Herbert's  death,  had  felt  himself  attracted  even  more  irresisti- 
bly to  his  friends  in  their  sorrow  than  even  in  their  joy,  and 
so  constantly  had  he  been  invited  to  make  his  stay  at  Mr.  Ha- 
milton's residence,  wherever  that  might  be,  that  he  often  de- 
clared he  had  now  no  other  home.  The  tale  of  Edward's  peril 
interested  him  much ;  he  would  make  Ellen  repeat  it  over  and 
over  again,  and  admire  the  daring  rashness  which  urged  the 
young  sailor  not  to  defer  his  return  to  his  commander,  even 
though  a  storm  was  threatening  around  him ;  and  when  Mr. 
Hamilton  related  the  story  of  Ellen's  fortitude  in  bearing  as 
she  did  this  painful  suspense,  the  old  man  would  conceal  hia 
admiration  of  his  young  friend  under  a  joke,  and  laughingly 
protest  she  was  as  fitted  to  be  a  gallant  sailor  as  her  noble 
brother. 

On  the  character  of  the  young  heir  of  Oakwood  the  death 
of  his  brother  appeared  to  have  made  an  impression,  which 
tioither  time  nor  circumstances  could  efface.  lie  was  not  out- 
wardly sad.  but  his  volatile  nature  appeared  departed.  Ho 
was  no  longer  the  same  wild,  boisterous  youth,  ever  on  the 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  455 

look-out  for  some  change,  some  new  diversion  or  practical  joke, 
which  had  been  his  characteristics  while  Herbert  lived.  A 
species  of  quiet  dignity  was  now  his  own.  combined  with  a  de- 
votedness  to  his  parents,  which  before  had  never  been  so  dis- 
tinctly visible.  He  had  ever  loved  them,  ever  sought  their 
happiness,  their  wishes  in  preference  to  his  own.  Herbert 
himself  had  not  surpassed  him  in  filial  love  and  reverence,  but 
now,  though  his  feelings  were  the  same,  their  expression  was 
different ;  cheerful  and  animated  he  still  was.  but  the  ringing 
laugh  which  had  so  often  echoed  through  the  halls  of  Oakwood 
had  gone.  It  seemed  as  if  the  death  of  a  brother  so  beloved, 
had  suddenly  transformed  Percy  Hamilton  from  the  wild  and 
thoughless  pleasure-seeking,  joke-loving  lad.  into  the  calm  and 
serious  man.  To  the  eyes  of  his  family,  opposite  as  the  bro- 
thers in  youth  had  been,  there  were  now  many  points  of  Her- 
bert's character  reflected  upon  Percy,  and  dearer  than  ever  he 
became :  and  the  love  which  had  been  excited  in  the  gentle 
heart  of  Louisa  Manvers  by  the  wild  spirits,  the  animation, 
the  harmless  recklessness,  the  freedom  of  thought  and  word, 
which  had  characterized  Percy,  when  she  first  knew  him.  was 
purified  and  heightened  by  the  calm  dignity,  the  more  serious 
thought,  the  solid  qualities  of  the  virtuous  and  honorable 
man. 

Lieutenant  Fortes,cue  was  now  daily  expected  in  England, 
much  to  the  delight  of  his  family  and  Sir  George  Wilmot-.  who 
declared  he  should  have  no  peace  till  he  was  introduced  to  the 
preserver  of  his  gallant  boy.  as  he  chose  to  call  Edward.  Lieu- 
tenant Mordaunt ;  he  never  heard  of  such  a  name,  and  he  was 
quite  sure  he  had  never  been  a  youngster  in  his  cockpit. 
'•  What  does  he  mean  by  saying  he  knows  me,  that  he  sailed 
witli  me.  when  a  mid  ?  he  must  be  some  impostor.  Mistress 
Nell,  take  my  word  for  it,"  Sir  George  would  laughingly  say. 
and  vow  vengeance  on  Ellen,  for  daring  to  doubt  the  excellence 
of  his  memory  ;  as  she  one  day  ventured  to  hint  that  it  was  sc 
very  many  years,  it  was  quite  impossible  Sir  George  could  re 
member  the  names  of  all  the  middies  under  him.  It  was  mticl 
more  probable,  Sir  George  would  retort,  that  slavery  had  be 
wildered  the  poor  man's  understanding,  and  that  he  fancied  h? 
was  acquainted  with  the  first  English  names  he  heard. 

"  Never  mind.  Nell,  he  has  been  a  slave,  poor  fellow,  so  we 
will  not  treat  him  as  an  impostor,  the  first  moment  he  reaches 
hit)  native  land,"  was  the  general  conclusion  of  the  old  Admi 
ral;s  jokes,  as  each  day  increased  his  impatience  for  Kdward'n 
return. 


456  THE    MOTHER  S    RECOMPENSE. 

He  was  gratified  at  length,  and  as  generally  happens,  when 
least  expected,  for  protesting  he  would  not  be  impatient  any 
more,  he  amused  himself  by  setting  little  Lord  Lyle  on  his  knee, 
and  was  so  amused  by  the  child's  playful  prattle  and  joyous 
laugh,  that  he  forgot  to  watch  at  the  window,  which  was  his 
general  post.  Ellen  was  busily  engaged  in  nursing  Caroline's 
babe,  now  about  six  months  old. 

"  Give  me  Mary,  Ellen,"  said  the  young  Earl,  entering  the 
room,  with  pleasure  visibly  impressed  on  his  features.  "  You 
will  have  somebody  else  to  kiss  in  a  moment,  and  unless  you 
can  bear  joy  as  composedly  as  you  can  sorrow,  why  I  tremble 
for  the  fate  of  my  little  Mary." 

"  What  do  you  mean.  St  Eval?  you  shall  not  take  my  baby 
from  me,  unless  you  can  give  me  a  better  reason." 

{i  I  mean  that  Edward  will  be  here  in  five  minutes,  if  he  be 
not  already.  Ah,  Ellen,  you  will  resign  Mary  now.  Come  to 
me,  little  lady,"  and  the  young  father  caught  his  child  from 
Ellen's  trembling  hands,  and  dancing  her  high  in  the  air.  was 
rewarded  by  her  loud  crow  of  joy. 

In  another  minute,  Edward  was  in  the  room,  and  clasped 
to  his  sister's  beating  heart.  It  was  an  agitating  moment,  for 
it  seemed  to  Ellen's  excited  fancy  that  Edward  was  indeed  re- 
stored to  her  from  the  dead,  he  had  not  merely  returned  from 
a  long  and  dangerous  voyage.  The  young  sailor  as  he  released 
her  from  his  embrace,  looked  with  an  uncontrolled  impulse 
round  the  room.  All  were  not  there  he  loved  ;  he  did  not 
miss  Emnieline,  but  Herbert — oh,  his  gentle  voice  was  not 
heard  amongst  the  many  that  crowded  round  to  greet  him. 
He  looked  on  his  aunt,  her  deep  mourning  robe ;  he  thought 
her  paler,  thinner,  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before,  and  the 
impetuous  young  man  could  not.  be  restrained;  he  flung  him- 
self within  her  extended  arms,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Mr.  Hamilton  hastened  towards  them.  "  Our  beloved 
Herbert  is  happy,"  he  said,  solemnly,  as  he  wrung  his  nephew's 
hands.  "  Let  us  not  mourn  for  him  now,  Edward,  but  rather 
rejoice,  as,  were  he  amongst  us,  ho  would  do,  gratefully  rejoice 
that  the  same  gracious  hand  which  removed  him  in  love  to  a 
brighter  world  .was  stretched  over  you  in  your  hour  of  peril, 
and  preserved  you  to  those  who  so  dearty  love  you.  You.  too, 
we  might  for  a  time  have  lost,  my  beloved  Edward.  Shall  we 
not  rejoice  that  you  are  spared  us  ?  Enimeline,  m\  own  Em- 
meline.  think  on  the  blessings  still  surrounding  us." 

His  impressive  words  had  their  effect  on  both  his  agitated 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  457 

auditors.  Edward  gently  withdrew  himself  from  the  detain- 
ing arms  of  his  aunt ;  he  pressed  a  long,  lingering  kiss  upon 
her  check,  and  hastily  conquering  his  emotion,  clasped  Sir 
(Jeorge  ^Wilmot's  extended  hand,  and  after  a  few  minutes' 
silence,  greeted  all  his  cousins  with  his  accustomed  warmth, 
ami  *poke  as  usual. 

There  had  been  one  unseen,  unthought-of  spectator  of  this 
little  scene;  all  had  been  too  much  startled  and  affected  at 
Edivard's  unexpected  burst  of  sorrow,  to  think  of  the  stranger 
who  had  entered  the  room  with  him ;  but  that  stranger  had 
looked  around  him,  more  particularly  on  Mrs.  Hamilton,  with 
feelings  of  intensity  utterly  depriving  him  of  either  speech  or 
motion.  Years  had  passed  lightly  over  Mrs.  Hamilton's  head; 
she  had  borne  trials,  cares,  and  sorrows,  as  all  her  fellow-crea- 
tures do,  but  her  burden  had  ever  been  cast  upon  Ilirn  who 
had  promised  to  sustain  her,  and  therefore  on  her  it  had  not 
weighed  so  heavily ;  and  years  had  neither  bent  that  graceful 
figure,  nor  robbed  her  features  of  their  bloom.  Hers  had 
never  been  extraordinary  beauty.  It  had  been  the  expression 
only  which  was  ever  the  charm  in  her,  an  expression  of  such 
purity  of  thought  and  deed,  of  gentle  unassuming  piety. 
Time  cannot  triumph  over  that  beauty  which  is  reflected  from 
the  soul ;  and  Mordaunt  gazed  on  her  till  he  could  scarcely 
restrain  himself  from  rushing  forward,  and  clasping  her  to  his 
bosom,  proclaim  aloud  who  and  what  he  was  ;  but  he  did  com- 
mand himself,  though  his  limbs  trembled  under  him,  and  he 
was  thankful  that  as  yet  he  was  unobserved.  He  looked  on 
the  blooming  family  around  him — they  were  her  children,  and 
yet  to  them  lie  was  as  the  dead ;  and  now,  would  she  indeed 
remember  him?  Edward  suddenly  recalled  the  presence  of 
his  friend,  and  springing  towards  him,  with  an  exclamation  of 
regret  at  his  neglect,  instantly  attracted  the  attention  of  all, 
and  Mordaunt  suddenly  found  himself  the  centre  of  a  group, 
who  were  listening  with  much  interest  to  Edward's  animated 
account  of  all  he  owed  him,  a  recital  which  Mordaunt  vainly 
endeavored  to  suppress,  by  declaring  he  had  done  nothing 
worth  speaking  of.  Mrs.  Hamilton  joined  her  husband  in  wel- 
coming the  stranger,  with  that  grace  and  kindness  peculiarly 
hei  own.  She  thanked  him  warmly  for  the  care  he  had  taken, 
and  the  exertions  he  had  made  for  her  nephew ;  and  as  she 
did  co.  the  color  so  completely  faded  from  Mordaunt's  sun 
burnt  cheek,  that  Edward,  declaring  he  was  ill  and  exhausted 
by  the  exertions  he  had  made  from  the  first  moment  of  their 
20 


458  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

landing  at  Portsmouth,  entreated  him  to  retire  to  the  chambei 
which  had  been  prepared  for  him,  but  this  Mordauut  refused, 
say  ing.  he  was  perfectly  well. 

"  It  is  long  since  I  have  heard  the  voice  of  kindness  in  my 
native  tongue — long  since  English  faces  and  English  hearts 
have  thus  blessed  rue,  and  would  you  bid  me  leave  them,  my 
young  friend  ?" 

His  mournful  voice  thrilled  to  Mrs.  Hamilton's  heart,  as 
he  laid  his  hand  appealingly  on  Edward's  arm. 

';  Not  for  worlds,"  replied  the  young  sailor,  cheerfully. 
"  Sir  George  Wilmot,  my  dear  aunt,  have  you  any  recollection 
of  my  good  friend  here  'I  he  says  he  knew  you  both  when  he 
was  a  boy." 

Sir  George  "Wilmot's  eyes  had  never  moved  from  Mordaunt 
since  he  had  withdrawn  his  attention  from  Edward,  and  he 
now  replied  somewhat  gravely — 

"  Of  the  name  of  Mordauut  I  have  no  recollection  as  being 
borne  by  any  youngsters  on  board  my  ship,  but  those  features 
seem  strangely  familiar  to  me.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but 
have  you  always  borne  that  name?" 

':  From  the  time  I  can  remember,  Sir  George,  but  this  may 
perhaps  convince  you  I  have  been  on  board  your  ship.  Was 
there  not  one  amongst  us  in  the-  cockpit,  a  young  lad  whom 
you  ever  treated  with  distinguished  favor,  who,  however  un- 
worthy, you  ever  held  up  to  his  comrades  as  a  pattern  of  all 
that  was  excellent  in  a  seaman  and  a  youth,  whom  you  ever 
loved  and  treated  as  a  son?  I  was  near  him  when  he  flung 
himself  in  the  sea,  with  a  sword  in  his  mouth,  and  entering  the 
enemy's  ship  by  one  of  the  cabin-windows,  fought  his  way  to 
the  quarter-deck,  and  hauling  down  the  French  standard,  re- 
tained his  post  till  relieved  by  his  comrades ;  and  when  the 
fight  was  over,  hung  back  and  gave  to  others  the  meed  of  praise 
vouwere  so  eager  to  bestow.  Have  you  forgotten  this.  Sir 
George  ?" 

"  No  !  "  replied  the  Admiral,  with  sudden  animation.  c;  Often 
have  I  recalled  that  day,  one  amongst  the  many  in  which  iuy 
Charles  distinguished  himself" 

"  And  you  told  him  he  would  rise  to  eminence  "ere  many 
years  had  passed — the  name  of  Delrnont  would  rival  that  of 
Nelson  ere  his  career  had  run." 

The  old  Admiral  looked  on  the  stranger  with  increased 
astonishment  and  agitation. 

"  Delrnont !  you  knew  my  brother,  then,  Lieutenant  Mor- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  459 

daunt,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  could  not  refrain  from  saying.  "  Many, 
many  years  have  passed  ;  yet  tell  me  when  you  saw  him 
last." 

"I  was  with  him  in  his  last  voyage,  lady,"  replied  the 
stranger,  in  a  low  and  peculiar  voice,  for  it  was  evidently  an 
effort  to  retain  his  calmness.  "  Six-and-twenty  years  have 
gone  by  since  the  Leander  left  the  coast  of  England  never 
to  return  ;  six-and-twenty  years  since  I  set  foot  in  my  native 
land." 

•;  And  did  all  indeed  perish  save  yourself?  Were  you  alone 
saved  ?  Saw  you  my  brother  after  the  vessel  sunk  ?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  hurriedly,  laying  her  trembling  hand  on  the 
stranger's  arm,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  she  did.  "  He  too 
might  be  spared  even  as  yourself;  but  oh,  death  were  prefera- 
ble to  lingering  on  his  years  in  slavery." 

"  Alas  !  my  Emmeline,  wherefore  indulge  in  such  fallacious 
hope  ?"  said  her  husband,  tenderly,  for  he  saw  she  was  exces- 
sively agitated. 

"  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  said  Sir  George  "Wilmot,  earnestly, 
speaking  at  the  same  moment,  "Emmeline,  child  of  my  best, 
my  earliest  friend,  look  on  those  features,  look  well ;  do  you 
not  know  them  ?  Six-and-twenty  years  have  done  their  work, 
yet  surely  not  sufficiently  to  conceal  him  from  your  eyes. 
Have  you  not  seen  that  flashing  eye,  that  curling  lip,  before  ? 
Look  well  ere  you  decide." 

"  Lady,  Charles  Manvers  lives  !"  murmured  the  stranger,  in 
the  voice  of  one  whom  strong  emotion  deprived  of  utterance, 
and  he  pushed  from  his  brow  the  hair  which  thickly  clustered 
there,  and  in  part  concealed  the  natural  expression  of  his  fea- 
tures, and  gazed  on  her  face.  A  gleam  of  sunshine  at  this  in- 
stant threw  a  sudden  glow  upon  his  countenance,  and  Mr. 
Hamilton  started  forward,  and  an  exclamation  of  astonishment, 
of  pleasure,  escaped  his  lips,  but  Mrs.  Hamilton's  eyes  moved 
not  from  the  stranger's  face. 

"  Emmeline.  my  sister,  my  own  sister,  will  you  not  know 
me,  can  you  not  believe  that  Charles  is  spared  ?"  he  exclaimed, 
\n  a  tone  of  excited  feeling. 

';  Oh  God  !  it  is  Charles  himself!"  she  sobbed,  and  sunk 
almost  fainting  in  his  embrace ;  convulsively  the  brother 
pressed  her  to  his  bosom.  It  seemed  as  if  the  happiness  of 
that  moment  was  too  great  for  reality,  as  if  it  were  but  some 
dream  of  bliss;  scarcely  was  he  conscious  of  the  warm 
greeting  he  received  ;  the  uncontrollable  emotion  of  thi  old 


460  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

Admiral,  who,  as  he  wrung  his  hand  again  and  again, 
wept  like  a  child.  His  brain  seemed  to  reel,  and  every 
object  danced  before  his  eyes,  he  was  alone  sensible  that  he 
held  his  sister  in  his  arms,  that  sister  whom  he  had  loved  even 
more  devotedly,  more  constantly,  in  his  hours  of  slavery  than 
when  she  had  been  ever  near  him.  Her  counsels,  her  example, 
had  had  but  little  apparent  effect  on  him  when  a  wild  and 
reckless  boy  at  his  father's  house,  but  they  had  sustained  him 
io  his  affliction  ;  it  was  then  he  knew  the  value  of -those  serious 
thoughts  and  feelings  his  sister  had  so  labored  to  inculcate, 
and  associated  as  they  were  with  her,  she  became  de.irer  each 
time  he  felt  himself  supported,  under  his  many  trials,  by  fer- 
vent prayer,  and  that  implicit  trust,  of  which  she  had  so  often 
spoken. 

In  wondering  astonishment  the  younger  members  of  the 
family  had  regarded  this  little  scene  some  minutes  before  the 
truth  had  flashed  on  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Hamilton.  Both 
St.  Eval  and  Percy  had  guessed  who  in  reality  the  stranger 
was,  and  waited  in  some  anxiety  for  the  effect  that  recognition 
would  have  on  Mrs.  Hamilton,  whom  Edward  had  already 
considerably  agitated.  With  characteristic  delicacy  of  feel- 
ing all  then  left  the  room,  Sir  George  Wilmot  and  Mr. 
Hamilton  alone  remaining  with  the  long-separated  brother 
and  sister. 

"  My  uncle  Charles  himself!  Fool,  idiot  that  I  was,  never 
to  discover  this  before."  had  been  Edward's  exclamation,  in 
a  tone  of  unrestrained  joy. 

A  short  time  sufficed  to  restore  all  to  comparative  compo- 
sure, but  a  longer  interval  was  required  for  Charles  Manvers, 
vhom  we  must  now  term  Lord  Delmont,  to  ask  and  to  answer 
the  innumerable  questions  which  were  naturally  called  for  by 
his  unexpected  return  ;  much  had  he  to  hear  and  much  to  tell, 
even  leaving,  as  he  said  he  would,  the  history  of  his  adven- 
tures in  Algiers  to  amuse  two  or  three  winter  evenings,  when 
all  his  family  were  around  him. 

':  All  my  family,"  he  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling. 
"Do  I  say  this?  I,  the  isolated,  desolate  being  I  imagined 
myself;  I  who  believed  so  many  years  had  passed,  that  I 
should  remain  unrecognized,  unloved,  forgotten.  Reproach 
me  not.  my  sister,  the  misery  I  occasioned  myself,  the  emo- 
tions of  this  moment  are  punishment  enough.  And  are  all 
those  whom  I  saw  here  yours,  Hamilton  ?"  he  continued  more 
Cheerfully.  "  Oh  let  me  claim  their  love  ;  I  know  them  all 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE  46 1 

already,  for  Edward  has  long  ere  this  made  me  acquainted 
with  them,  both  individually  and  as  the  united  members  of 
one  affectionate  family  ;  I  long  to  judge  for  myself  if  his  ac- 
count be  indeed  correct,  though  I  doubt  it  not.  Poor,  fellow, 
I  deserve  his  reproaches  for  continuing  my  deception  to  him 
so  long." 

'•  And  why  was  that  name  assumed  at  all,  dear  Charles  V 
inquired  Mr.  Hamilton.  "  Why  not  resume  your  own,  when 
the  chains  of  slavery  were  broken  ?" 

"  And  how  dare  you  say  Mordaunt  was  yours  as  long  aa 
you  can  remember  ?"  demanded  Sir  George,  holding  up  his 
hand  in  a  threatening  attitude,  as  if  the  full  grown  man  be- 
fore him  were  still  the  slight  stripling  he  last  remembered 
him.  ';  Deception  was  never  permitted  on  my  decks,  Master 
Charles." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  smiled. 

"  Nor  have  I  practised  it,  Sir  George,"  he  replied.  "  Mor- 
daunt was  my  name,  as  my  sister  can  vouch.  Charles 
Mordaunt  Manvers  I  was  christened — Mordaunt  being  the 
name  of  my  godfather,  between  whom  and  my  father,  however, 
a  dispute  arose,  when  I  was  about  seven  years  old.  completely 
setting  aside  old  friendship,  and  causing  them  to  be  at  enmity 
till  Sir  Henry  Mordaunt's  death.  The  tale  was  repeated 
to*  me  when  I  was  about  ten  years  old,  much  exaggerated  of 
course?  and  I  declared  I  would  bear  his  name  no  longer.  I 
remember  well  my  gentle  sister  Emraeline's  entreaties  and 
persuasions  that  I  would  not  interfere. — that  I  knew  nothing 
about  the  quarrel,  and  had  no  right  to  be  so  angry.  How- 
ever, I  carried  my  point,  as  I  generally  did,  with  my  too 
indulgent  parent,  and  therefore  from  that  time  I  was  only 
known  as  Charles  Manvers,  for  my  father  could  not  bear  the 
name  spoken  before  him.  Do  you  not  remember  it,  Em- 
meline?" 

"  Perfectly  well,  n  :>w  it  is  recalled,  though  I  candidly  own 
I  had  forgotten  the  circumstance  " 

"  But,  still,  why  was  Manvers  disused  ?"  Mr.  Hamilton 
again  inquired. 

"  For  perhaps  an  unjust  and  foolish  fancy,  my  dear  friend. 
I  could  not  enjoy  my  freedom,  because  of  the  thought  I  men- 
tioned before.  I  knew  not  if  my  loved  father  still  lived,  nor 
.who  bore  the  title  of  Lord  Dclmont,  which,  if  he  were  no  more, 
was  mine  by  inheritance  ;  for  four-and-twenty  years  I  had 
heard  nothing  of  all  whom  I  loved  ;  they  looked  on  me  aa 


462  THE  MOTHER'S 

dead :  they  might  be  scattered,  dispersed  ;  instead  of  joy,  my 
return  might  bring  with  it  sorrow,  vexation,  discontent.  It 
was  for  this  reason  I  relinquished  the  name  of  Manvers,  and 
adopted  the  one  I  had  well-nigh  forgotten  as  being  mine  by 
an  equal  right ;  I  wished  to  visit  my  native  land  unknown,  and 
bearing  that  name,  any  inquiries  I  might  have  made  would  be 
unsuspected. 

Surrounded  by  those  whom  in  waking  and  sleeping  dreams 
he  had  so  long  loved,  the  clouds  which  had  overhung  Lord  ' 
Delmont's  mind  as  a  thick  mist,  even  when  he  found  himself 
free,  dissolved  before  the  calm  sunshine  of  domestic  love.  A 
sense  of  happiness  pervaded  his  heart — happiness  chastened 
by  a  deep  feeling  of  gratitude  to  Him  who  had  ordained  it. 
Affected  he  was  almost  to  tears,  as  the  manner  of  his  nephew 
and  nieces  towards  him  unconsciously  betrayed  how  affection- 
ately they  had  ever  been  taught  to  regard  his  memory.  Hap- 
idly  he  became  acquainted  with  each  and  all,  and  eagerly 
looked  forward  to  the  arrival  of  Emmcline  and  her  husband  to 
look  on  them  likewise  as  his  own :  but  though  Edward  laugh- 
ingly protested  he  should  tremble  now  for  the  continuance  of 
his  uncle's  preference  towards  himself,  he  ever  retained  his 
place.  He  had  been  the  first  known ;  his  society,  his  sooth- 
ing words,  his  animated  buoyancy  of  spirit,  his  strong  affec- 
tion and  respect,  for  his  uncle's  memory  when  he  believed  him 
dead,  and  perhaps  the  freemasonry  of  brother  sailors,  had 
bound  him  to  Lord  Delmont's  heart  with  ties  too  strong  to  be 
ripen.  The  more  he  heard  of,  and  the  more  he  associated 
•with  him  in  the  intimacy  of  home,  the  stronger  those  feelings 
became  ;  and  Edward  on  his  part  unconsciously  increased 
them  by  his  devotcdness  to  his  uncle  himself,  the  manner 
with  which  he  ever  treated  MrsT  Hamilton,  and  his  conduct 
to  his  sister,  whose  quiet  and  unselfish  happiness  at  his 
return,  and  thus  accompanied,  was  indeed  heightened,  more 
than  she  herself  a  few  months  previous,  could  have  believed 
possible. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

OUR.  little  narrative  must  here  transport  the  reader  to  a  small 
cottage  in  the  picturesque  village  of  Llangwillan.  where,  about 
three  months  after  the  events  we  have  narrated,  Lilla  Grahame 
eat  one  evening  in  solitude,  and  it  seemed  in  sorrow.  The 


* 
THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  463 

room  in  which  she  was  seated  was  small,  but  furnished  and 
adorned  with  the  refined  and  elegant  taste  of  one  whose  rank 
appeared  much  higher  than  the  general  occupants  of  such  a 
dwelling.  A  large  window,  reaching  to  the  ground,  opened  on 
a  smooth  and  sloping  lawn,  which  was  adorned  by  most  beauti- 
ful flowers.  It  led  to  a  small  gate  opening  on  a  long,  narrow 
lane,  which  led  to  the  Vicarage,  leaving  the  little  church  and 
its  picturesque  burying-grouud  a  little  to  the  right ;  the  thick 
grove  which  surrounded  it  forming  a  'eafy  yet  impenetrable' 
wall  to  one  side  of  the  garden.  There  were  many  very  pretty 
tombs  in  this  churchyard ;  perhaps  its  beauty  consisted  in  its 
extreme  neatness,  and  the  flowers  that  the  vicar.  Mr.  My  win, 
took  so  much  pleasure  in  carefully  preserving.  One  lowly 
grave,  beneath  a  large  and  spreading  yew,  was  never  passed 
unnoticed.  A  plain  marble  stone  denoted  that  there  lay  one 
who  had  once  been  the  brightest  amid  the  bright,  the  brilliant 
star  of  a  lordly  circle.  The  name,  her  age,  and  two  simple 
verses,  were  there  inscribed ;  but  around  that  humble  grave 
there  were  sweet  flowers  flourishing  more  luxuriously  than  in 
any  other  part  of  the  churchyard ;  the  climbing  honeysuckle 
twined  its  odoriferous  clusters  up  the  dark  trunk  of  the  storm- 
resisting  yew.  Roses  of  various  kinds  intermingled  with  the 
lowly  violet,  the  snowdrop,  lily  of  the  valley,  the  drooping  con- 
volvulus, which,  closing  its  petals  for  a  time,  is  a  fit  emblem  of 
that  sleep  which,  closing  our  eyes  on  earth,  reopens  them  in 
heaven,  beneath  the  genial  warmth  of  the  sun  of  righteous- 
ness. These  flowers  were  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  the  villagers, 
and  their  children  were  charged  not  to  despoil  them  ;  and  too 
deep  wai  their  reverence  for  their  minister,  and  too  sacred  was 
that  little  spot  of  earth,  even  to  their  uncultured  eyes,  for 
those  commands  ever  to  be  disobeyed.  But  it  was  not  to  Mr. 
Myrvin's  care  alone  that  part  of  the  churchyard  owed  its  beau- 
ty. It  had  ever  been  distinguished  from  the  rest  by  the  flow- 
ers around  it ;  but  it  was  only  the  last  two  years  they  had 
flourished  so  luxuriantly;  the  hand  of  Lilla  Grahame  watered 
and  tended  them  with  unceasing  care.  In  the  early  morning 
or  the  calm  twilight,  she  was  seen  beside  the  grave,  and  many 
might  have  believed  that  there  reposed  the  ashes  of  a  near  and 
dear  relation  :  but  it  was  not  so.  Lilla  had  never  seen  and 
never  known  the  lovely  being  whose  last  home  she  thus  affec- 
tionately tended.  It  was  dear  to  her  from  its  association  with 
him  whom  she  loved  :  there  her  thoughts  could  wander  to  him; 


464  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

and  surely  the  love  thus  cherished  beside  the  dead  must  Lave 
been  purity  itself. 

It  was  the  hour  that  Lilla  usually  sought  the  churchyard, 
but  she  came  not,  and  the  lengthening  shadows  of  a  soft  and 
lovely  May  evening  fell  around  the  graceful  figure  of  a  tall  and 
elegant  young  man,  in  naval  uniform,  who  lingered  beside  the 
grave;  pensive,  it  seemed,  yet  scarcely  melancholy.  His  fine 
expressive  countenance  seemed  to  breathe  of  happiness  pro- 
ceeding from  the  heart,  chastened  and  softened  by  holier 
thoughts.  A  smile  of  deep  feeling  encircled  his  lips  as  he 
looked  on  the  flowers,  which  in  this  season  were  just  bursting 
into, beautiful  bloom ;  and,  plucking  an  early  violet,  he  pressed 
it  to  his  lips  and  placed  it  next  his  heart.  "  Doubly  precious," 
he  said,  internally,  "  planted  by  the  hand  of  her  I  love,  it  flou- 
rished on  my  mother's  grave.  Oh,  my  mother,  would  that 
you  could  behold  your  Edward  now ;  that  your  blessings  could 
be  mine.  It  cannot  be,  and  thrice  blessed  as  I  am,  why  should 
I  seek  for  more?"  A  few  moments  longer  he  lingered,  then 

O  O  / 

turned  in  the  direction  of  the  Vicarage. 

Lilla's  spirits  harmonized  not  as  they  generally  did  with 
the  calm  beauty  of  nature  around  her.  Anxious  and  sorrow- 
ful, her  tears  more  than  once  fell  slowly  and  unheeded  on  her 
work ;  but  little  improvement  had  taken  place  in  her  father's 
temper.  She  had  much,  very  much  to  bear,  even  though  s.he 
knew  he  loved  her,  and  that  his  chief  cares  were  for  her ;  re- 
tirement had  not  relieved  his  irritated  spirit.  Had  he,  instead 
of  retreating  from,  mingled  as  formerly  in.  the  world,  he  might 
ho^e  been  much  happier,  for  he  would  have  found  the  dishonor- 
able conduct  of  his  son  had  not  tarnished  his  own.  He  had 
been  too  long  and  too  well  known  as  the  soul  of  honor  and  in- 
tegrity, for  one  doubt  or  aspersion  to  be  cast  upon  his  name. 
Lady  Helen's  injudicious  conduct  towards  her  children  was  in- 
deed often  blamed,  and  Grahame's  own  severity  much  re- 
gretted, but  it  was  much  mor^  of  sympathy  he  now  commanded 
than  scorn  or  suspicion,  and  all  his  friends  lamented  his  retire- 
ment. Had  not  Lilla's  spirits  been  naturally  elastic,  they 
must  have  bent  beneath  these  continued  and  painful  trials;  her 
young  heart  often  felt  breaking,  but  the  sense  of  religion,  the 
excellent  principles  instilled  both  by  Mrs.  Douglas  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton  now  had  their  full  effect,  and  sustained  her  amidst 
all.  She  never  wavered  in  her  duty  to  her  father ;  she  never 
complained,  t.wu,  in  hiy  letters  to  her  dearest  and  most  confi- 
dential friends 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  465 

"  Have  you  thought  on  the  subject  we  spoke  of  last  night, 
Lilla  V"  asked  her  father,  entering  suddenly,  and  seating  him- 
self gloomily  on  a  chair  some  paces  from  her.  His  daughter 
started  as  she  saw  him.  for  the  first  tone  of  his  voice  betrayed 
he  was  more  than  usually  irritable  and  gloomy. 

l:  Yes,  father,  I  have,"  she  replied,  somewhat  timidly. 

"And  what  is  your  answer?" 

"  I  fear  you  will  be  displeased,  ;ny  dear  father  ;  but  indeed 
I  cannot  answer  differently  to  last  night."  ' 

'•  You  are  still  resolved  then  to  refuse  Philip  Clappeiton?" 

Lilla  was  silent. 

"  And  pray  may  I  ask  the  cause  of  your  fastidiousness, 
Miss  Grahame?  Your,  burst  of  tears  last  night  made  a 
very  pretty  scene,  no  doubt,  but  they  gave  me  no  proper 
answer." 

<;It  is  not  only  that  I  cannot  lover  Mr.  Clapperton,  father, 
but  I  cannot  respect  him." 

':  And  pray  why  not  ?  I  tell  you,  Lilla.  blunt,  even  coarse, 
if  you  like,  as  he  is,  unpolished,  hasty,  yet  he  has  a  better 
heart  by  far  than  many  of  these  more  elegant  and  attractive 
sprigs  of  nobility,  amongs£  which  perhaps  your  romaiitic 
fancy  has  wandered,  as  being  the  only  husbands  fitted  for* 
you." 

"You  do  me  injustice,  father.  I  have  never  indulged  in 
such  romantic  visions,  but  I  cannot  willingly  unite  my  fate 
with  one  in  whom  I  see  no  fixed  principle  of  action— one  who 
owns  no  guide  but  pleasure.  His  heart  may  be  good.  I  doubt 
it  not ;  but  I  cannot  respect  one  who  spends  his  whole  life  in 
fox-hunting,  drinking,  and  all  the  pleasures  peculiar  to  the 
members  of  country  cmbs." 

'•  In  other  words,  a  plain,  honest-speaking,  English  gentle- 
man is  not  fine  enough  for  you.  What  harm  is  there  in  the 
amusements  you  have  enumerated  ?  "Why  should  not  a  fox- 
hunter  make  as  good  a  husband  aa  any  other  member  of 
society1?" 

Lilla  looked  at  her  father  with  astonishment.  These  wero 
not  always  his  sentiments  she  painfully  thought. 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  condemn  these  amusements,  my  dear 
father,  but  when  they  are  carried  on  without  either  principle 
or  religion.  How  can  I  venture  to  intrust  my  happiness  to 
tsucli  a  man  ?" 

"  And  where  do  you  expect  to  find  either  principle  or  re- 
Not  in  those  polished  circles,  where  I  can  per 
20* 


466  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

ceive  your  hopes  are  fixed.  Girl,  banish  such  hopes.  No  on« 
amongst  them  would  unite  himself  to  the  sister  of  that  dis- 
honored outcast,  Cecil  Grahame." 

Grahame's  whole  frame  shook  as  he  pronounced  his  son'a 
name,  but  sternness  still  characterized  his  voice. 

'•  Never  would  I  unite  myself  with  one  who  considered  him- 
self degraded  by  a  union  with  our  family,  father,  be  assured," 
said  Lilla.  earnestly.  "  My  hopes  are  not  high.  I  have 
thought  little  of  marriage,  and  till  I  am  sought  have  no  wish 
to  leave  this  sequestered  spot,  believe  me.1' 

11  And  who,  think  you,  will  seek  you  here  ?  You  had  bet- 
ter banish  such  idle  hopes,  for  they  will  end  in  disappoint- 
ment." 

"  Be  it  so,  then,"  Lilla  replied,  calmly,  though  had  her 
father  been  near  her,  he  would  have  seen  her  cheek  suddenly 
become  pale,  and  her  eyelids  quiver,  as  if  by  the  pressure  of  a 
tear.  "  Is  marriage  a  thing  so  indispensable,  that  you  would 
compel  me  to  leave  you,  my  dear  father  ?" 

'•  To  you  it  is  indispensable  ;  when  once  you  have  lost  the 
name  you  now  hold,  the  world  and  all  its  pleasures  will  be 
spread  before  you,  the  stain  will  be  remembered  no  more ; 
your  life  need  not  be  spent  in  gloom  and  exile  like  this." 

':  And  what,  then,  will  become  of  you?" 

':  Of  me  !  who  cares  ?  What  am  I,  and  what  have  I  ever 
been  to  either  of  my  children  that  they  should  care  for  me  ? 
I  scorn  the  mere  act  of  duty,  and  which  of  you  can  love  ?  no, 
Lilla.  not  even  you." 

"  Father,  you  do  me  wrong ;  oh,  do  not  speak  such  cruel 
words,"  said  Lilla,  springing  from  her  seat,  and  flinging  her- 
self on  her  knees  by  her  father's  side.  "  Have  I  indeed  so 
failed  in  testimonies  of  love,  that  you  can  for  one  instant  be- 
lieve it  is  only  the  duty  of  a  child  I  feel  and  practise?  Oh, 
my  father,  do  me  not  such  harsh  injustice ;  could  you  read  my 
inmost  heart,  you  would  see  how  full  it  is  of  love  and  rever- 
ence for  you,  though  I  have  not  always  courage  to  express  it. 
Ask  of  me  any,  every  proof  but  this,  and  I  will  do  it ;  but,  oh, 
do  not  command  me  to  wed  Mr.  Clapperton :  why,  oh,  why 
would  you  thus  seek  to  send  me  from  you  ?" 

"  I  speak  but  for  your  happiness,  Lilla ;"  his  voice  some- 
what softened.  "  You  cannot  be  happy  now  with  one  so  harsh, 
irritable,  cruel,  as  I  know  I  am  too  often." 

"  And  would  you  compare  the  occasional  irritation,  pro 
ceeding  from  the  failing  health  of  a  beloved  father,  with  the 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPEXSJ.  467 

fierce  passion  and  constant  impatience  of  a  husband,  with 
whom  I  could  not  have  one  idea  in  common,  whom  I  could 
neither  love  nor  reverence,  to  whom  <5ven  my  duty  would  be 
wretchedness?  oh.  my  father,  can  you  compare  the  two?  Think 
of  Mrs.  Greville:  Philip  Clapperton  ever  reminds  me  of  Mr, 
Greville.  of  what  at  least  he  must  have  been  in  his  youth,  and 
would  you  sentence  me  to  all  the  misery  that  has  been  poor 
Mrs.  Greville's  lot  and  her  children's  likewise?" 

"You  do  not  know  enough  of  Clapperton  to  judge  him 
thus  harshly,  Lilla ;  I  know  him  better,  and  I  cannot  see  the 
faults  against  which  you  are  so  inveterate.  Your  sister 
chose  a  husband  for  herself,  and  how  has  she  fared  ?  is  she 
happy  ?" 

-  Annie  cannot  be  happy,  father,  even  if  her  husband  were 
cf  a  very  different  character.     She  disobeyed  ;  a  parent's  bless- 
ing hallowed  not  her  nuptials,  and  strange  indeed  would  it  be 
were  Ler  lot  otherwise ;  but  though  I  cannot  love  the  husband 
of  your  choice,  you  may  trust  me.  father,  without  your  con- 
sent and  blessing,  I  will  never  marry." 

"  Do  not  say  you  cannot  love  Philip  Clapperton,  Lilla ; 
when  once  his  wife,  you  could  not  fail  to  do  so.  I  would  see 
you  united  to  one  who  loves  you,  my  child,  ere  your  affections 
are  bestowed  on  another,  who  may  be  less  willing  to  return 
them." 

Grahame  spoke  in  a  tone  of  such  unwonted  softness,  that 
the  tears  now  rolled  unchecked  down  Lilla's  cheeks.  Her  in- 
genuou^  niture  could  not  be  restrained;  she  felt  as  if,  were  she 
still  silent  she  would  be  deceiving  him,  and  hiding  her  face  in 
her  hand,  she  almost  inaudibly  said — 

-  For  that,  then,  it  is  too  late,  father ;  I  cannot  love  Mr, 
Clapperton,  because — because  I  love  another." 

"  Ha  !"  exclaimed  Grahame.  starting,  then  laying  his  trem- 
bling hand  on  Lilla's  head,  he  continued,  struggling  with 
strong  emotion,  "  this,  then,  is  the  cause  of  your  determined 
refusal.  Poor  child,  poor  child,  what  misery  have  you  formed 
for  yourself!" 

'•  And  wherefore  misery,  my  father?"  replied  Lilla,  raising 
her  head  somewhat  proudly,  and  speaking  as  firmly  as  her 
tears  would  permit.  "  Your  child  would  not  have  loved  had 
she  not  deemed  her  affections  sought,  ay,  and  valued  too. 
Think  not  I  would  degrade  myself  by  giving  my  heart  to  any 
one  who  deemed  me  or  my  father  beneath  his  notice.  If  evci 
eye  or  act  can  speak,  I  do  not  love  in  vain." 


468  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMTT:*SE. 

"  And  would  you  believe  in  trifles  such  as  tli^se  ''"  asked 
her  father,  sorrowfully.  '•  Alas  !  poor  child,  word?  ar«  often 
false,  still  less  can  you  rely  ou  the  language  of  the  eye.  Has 
any  thing  like  an  understanding  taken  place  between  you?" 

"  Alas  !  my  father,  no ;  and  yet — and  yet — oh,  I  know  ho 
loves  me." 

'•  And  so  he  may,  my  child,  and  yet  break  his  own  heart 
and  yours,  poor  guileless  girl,  rather  than  unite  himself  witb 
the  dishonored  and  the  base.  Lilla,  my  own  Lilla,  I  havt 
been  harsh  and  cruel ;  it  is  because  I  feel  too  keenly  perhaps 
the  gall  in  which  your  wretched  brother's  conduct  has  steepea 
your  life  and  mine ;  mine  will  soon  pass  away,  but  the  dark 
shadow  will  linger  still  round  you.  my  child,  and  condemn  you 
to  wretchedness.  I  cannot,  cannot  bear  that  thought!"  and  he 
struck  his  clenched  hand  against  his  brow. 

"  Why  on  the  innocent  should  fall  the  chastisement  of  the 
guilty?  My  child,  my  child,  oh  banish  from  your  unsuspect- 
ing heart  the  hopes  of  love  returned.  Where  in  tliis  selfish 
world  will  you  find  one  to  love  you  so  for  yourself  alone,  that 
family  and  fortune  are  as  naught?" 

"  Why  judge  so  harshly  of  your  sex,  Mr.  Grahams  ?"  said 
a  rich  and  thrilling  voice,  in  unexpected  answer  to  his  words, 
and  the  same  young  man  whom  we  before  mentioned  as  linger- 
ing by  a  village  grave,  stepping  lightly  from  the  terrace  OD 
which  the  large  window  opened  into  the  room,  stood  suddenly 
before  the  astonished  father  and  his  child.  On  the  latter  the 
effect  of  hia  presence  was  almost  electric.  The  rich  crimson 
mantled  at  once  over  cheek  and  brow  and  neck,  a  faint  cry 
burst  from  her  lips,  and  as  the  thought  flashed  across  her,  that 
her  perhaps  too  presumptuous  hopes  of  love  returned  had  been 
overheard,  as  well  as  her  father's  words,  she  suddenly  burst 
into  tears  of  mingled  feeling,  and  darting  by  the  intruder, 
passed  by  the  way  he  had  entered  into  the  garden  ;  but  even 
when  away  from  him.  composure  for  a  time  returned  not.  She 
forgot  entirely  that  no  name  had  been  spoken  either  by  her 
father  or  by  herself  to  designate  him  whom  she  confessed  she 
l<»ved  ;  her  only  feeling  was,  she  had  betrayed  a  truth,  which 
from  him  she  would  ever  have  concealed,  till  he  indeed  had 
sought  it;  and  injured  modesty  now  gave  her  so  much  pain,  it 
permitted  her  not  to  rejoice  in  this  unexpected  appearance  of 
one  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  she  had  believed  him  dead. 
She  knew  the  churchyard  was  at  this  period  of  the  evening 
deserted,  and  almost  unconscious  what  she  was  about 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  4G9 

BUG  hastily  tied  on  her  bonnet,  and  with  the  speed  of  a  young « 
fawn  she  bounded  through  the  narrow  lane,  and  rested  not  till 
she  found  herself  seated  beside  her  favorite  grave;  there  she 
gave  full  vent  to  the  thoughts  in  which  pleasure  and  confusion 
somewhat  strangely  and  painfully  mingled. 

••  Can  yoa.  will  you  forgive  this  unceremonious  and,  t  fear, 
unwished-for  intrusion  ?"  was  the  young  stranger's  address  to 
Grahame,  when  he  had  recovered  from  the  agitation  which 
Lilhvs  emotion  had  called  forth,  he  scarcely  knew  wherefore. 
"  To  me  you  have  ever  extended  the  hand  of  friendship,  Mi. 
Grahame.  however  severe  upon  the  world  in  general,  and  will 
you  refuse  it  now.  when  my  errand  here  is  to  seek  an  even 
nearer  and  a  dearer  name?" 

"  You  are  welcome,  ever  welcome  to  my  humblo  home,  my 
dear  boy,  for  your  own  sake,  and  for  those  dear  to  you," 
replied  Grahame.  with  a  return  of  former  warmth  and  cor- 
diality. "  More  than  usually  welcome  I  may  say,  Edward,  as 
this  is  your  first  visit  here  since  your  rescue  from  the  bowels 
of  the  great  deep.  You  look  confused  and  heated,  and  as  if 
you  would  much  rather  run  after  your  old  companion  than  stay 
with  me,  but  indeed  I  cannot  spare  you  yet.  I  have  so  many 
questions  to  ask  you." 

'•  Forgive  me.  Mr.  Grahame,  but  indeed  you  must  hear  me 
first. 

•;  I  came  here  to  speak  to  you  on  a  subject  nearest  my 
heart,  and  till  that  is  told,  till  from  your  lips  I  know  my  fate, 
do  not,  for  pity,  ask  me  to  speak  on  any  other.  I  meant  not 
to  have  entered  so  abruptly  on  my  mission,  but  that  which  Mr. 
Myrvin  has  imparted  to  me.  and  what  I  undesignedly  over- 
heard as  I  stood  unseen  on  that  terrace,  have  taken  from  mo 
all  the  eloquence  with  which  I  meant  to  plead  my  cause." 

"  Speak  in  your  own  proper  person,  Edward,  and  then  I 
may  perhaps  hear  jou."  replied  Grahame,  from  whom  the  sight 
of  his  young  friend  appeared  to  have  banished  all  misanthropy. 
••What  I  can.  however,  have  to  do  with  your  fate,  I  know  not, 
except  that  I  will  acquit  you  of  all  intentional  eaves-dropping, 
if  it  be  that  which  troubles  you:  and  what  can  Mr.  Myrvin 
have  said  to  rob  you  of  eloquence  ?" 

;-  lie  told  me  that — that  you  had  encouraged  Philip  Clap- 
perton's  addresses  to  Lil — to  Miss  Grahame,"  answered 
Edward,  with  increasing  agitation,  for  he  perceived,  what  waa 
indeed  the  truth,  that  Grahame  had  not  the  least  idea  of  his 
intentions. 


470  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE, 

rf  "  And  what  can  that  have  to  do  with  you,  young  man  ?" 
inquired  Grahame,  somewhat  haughtily,  and  his  brow  darken- 
ed. "  You  have  not  seen  Lilla,  to  be  infected  with  her  preju- 
dices, and  in  what  manner  can  my  wishes  with  regard  to  my 
daughter  on  that  head  concern  you?" 

"  In  what  manner?  Mr.  Grahame,  I  came  hither  with  my 
aunt's  and  uncle's  blessing  on  my  purpose,  to  seek  from  you 
your  gentle  daughter's  hand.  I  am  not  a  man  of  many  words, 
and  all  L  had  to  say  appears  to  have  departed,  and  left  me 
speechless.  I  came  here  to  implore  your  consent,  for  without 
it  I  knew  'twere  vain  to  think  or  hope  to  make  your  Lilla 
mine.  I  came  to  plead  to  you,  and  armed  with  your  blessing, 
plead  my  cause  to  her,  and  you  ask  me  how  Mr.  Myrvin'a 
intelligence  can  affect,me.  Speak,  then,  at  once  ;  in  pitj  io  that 
weakness  which  makes  me  feel  as  if  my  lasting  happiness  or 
misery  depends  upon  your  answer." 

"  And  do  you,  Edward,  do  you  love  my  poor  child  ?"  asked 
the  father,  with  a  quivering  lip  and  glistening  eye.  as  he  laid 
his  hand,  which  trembled,  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"  Love  her,  oh,  Mr.  Grahame,  she  has  been  the  bright 
beaming  star  that  has  shone  on  my  ocean  course  for  many  a 
long  year.  I  know  not  when  I  first  began  to  love,  but  from 
my  cousin  Caroline's  wedding-day  the  thoughts  of  Lilla  ling- 
ered with  me.  and  gilded  many  a  vision  of  domestic  peace  and 
love,  and  each  time  I  looked  on  her  bright  face,  and  marked 
her  kindling  spirit,  heard  and  responded  inwardly  to  her  ani- 
mated voice,  I  felt  that  she  was  dearer  still ;  and  when  again 
I  saw  her  in  her  sorrow,  and  sought  with  Ellen  to  soothe  and 
cheer  her,  oh,  no  one  can  know  the  pain  it  was  to  restrain  the 
absorbing  wish  to  ask  her,  if  indeed  one  day  she  would  be 
mine,  but  that  was  no  time  to  speak  of  love.  Besides,  I  knew 
not  if  I  had  the  means  to  offer  her  a  Comfortable  home,  I  knew 
not  how  long  I  might  be  spared  to  linger  near  her ;  but  now, 
when  of  both  I  am  assured,  wherefore  should  I  hesitate  longer? 
With  the  title  of  captain,  that  for  which  I  have  so  long  pined, 
I  am  at  Hberty  to  retire  on  halfpny.  till  farther  orders;  the 
adopted  son  and  acknowledged  heir  to  my  uncle,  Lord  Del- 
mont,  I  have  now  enough  to  offer  her  my  hand,  without  one 
remaining  scruple.  You  are  silent.  Oh,  Mr.  Grahame.  must 
I  plead  in  vain  ?" 

"  And  would  you  marry  her.  would  you  indeed  take  my 
child  as  your  chosen  bride?"  faltered  Grahame.  deeply  moved. 
"  Honored,  titled  as  you  are,  my  poor,  portionless  Lilla  is  no 
meet  bride  for  you." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RE  OMPEXSE.  471 

{i  Perish  honors  and  title  too,  if  they  could  deprive  me  of 
the  gentle  girl  I  love."  exclaimed  the  young  captain,  impetu- 
ously. '•  Do  not  speak  thus,  Mr  Grahame.  In  what  was  my 
lamented  father  better  than  yourself — my  mother  than  Lady 
Helen  ?  and  if  she  were  in  very  truth  my  inferior  in  birth,  the 
virtues  and  beauty  of  Lilla  Grahame  would  do  honor  to  the 
proudest  peer  of  this  proud  land." 

:-  My  boy,  my  gallant  boy  \''  sobbed  the  agitated  father,  his 
irritability  gone,  dissolved,  like  the  threatening  tloud  of  a 
summer  day  beneatlf  some  genial  sunbeam,  and  as  he  wrung 
Captain  Fortescue's  hand  again  and  again  in  his,  the  tears 
streamed  like  an  infant's  down  his  cheek. 

••  Will  I  consent,  idll  I  give  you  my  blessing?  Oh,  to 
see  you  the  husband  of  my  poor  child  would  be  too,  too  much 
happiness,  happiness  wholly,  utterly  undeserved.  But,  oh, 
Edward,  can  Mr.  Hamilton,  can  Lord  Delmont  consent  to  your 
union  with  one,  whose  only  brother  is  a  disgraced,  dishonored 
outcast,  whose  father  a  selfish,  irritable  misanthrope?" 

'•  Can  the  misconduct  pf  Cecil  cast,  in  the  eyes  of  the  just 
and  good,  one  shadow  on  the  fair  fame  of  his  sister?  No.  my 
dear  sir.  it  is  you  who  have  looked  somewhat  unkindly  and 
unjustly  on  the  world,  as  when  you  mingle  again  with  your 
friends,  in  company  with  your  children,  you  will  not  fail,  with 
your  usual  candor,  to  acknowledge.  A  selfish,  irritable  misan- 
thrope," he  added,  archly  smiling.  "  You  cannot  terrify  me, 
Mr.  Grahame:  I  know  the  charge  is  false,  and  I  dread  it 
not." 

"Ask  no  not  to  join  the  world  again,"  said  Grahame, 
hoarsely ;  ':  in  all  else,  the  duties  of  my  children  shall  be  as 
laws,  but  that" — 

••  Well  well,  we  will  not  urge  it  now.  my  dear  sir."  replied 
the  young  saiior  cheerfully  ;  then  added,  with  the  eager  agita- 
tion of  affection,  "But  Lilla,  my  Lilla.  Oh,  may  I  hope  that 
she  will  in  truth  be  mine?  Oh.  have  I.  can  I  have  been  too 
presumptuous  in  the  thought  I  have  not  loved  in  vain  ?" 

••  Away  with  you.  and  seek  the  answer  from  her  own  lips," 
said  Mr.  Grahame.  with  more  of  his  former  manner  than  he 
had  yet  evinced,  for  he  now  entertained  not  one  doubt  as  to 
Edward  being  the  chosen  one  on  whom  his  daughter's  young 
affections  had  been  so  firmly  fixed.  '•  Go  to  her,  my  boy  ;  she 
will  not  fly  a  second  time,  so  like  a  startler!  hare,  from  your 
approach  ;  tell  her.  had  she  told  her  father  Edward  Fortescue 
was  the  worthv  object  of  her  love,  he  would  not  thus  have 


472  THi  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

thrown  a  damp  upon  her  young  heart,  he  would  not  have  con- 
demned  him  as  being  incapable  of  loving  her  for  herself  alone. 
Tell  her,  too,  the  name  of  Philip  Clapperton  shall  offend  her 
no  more.  Away  with  you,  my  boy." 

Edward  awaited  not  a  second  bidding.  In  a  very  few  mi- 
nutes the  whole  garden  had  been  searched,  and  Miss  Grahame 
inquired  for  all  over  the  house,  then  he  bounded  through,  the 
lane,  and  scarcely  five  minutes  after  he  had  quitted  Mr.  Gra- 
hame, he  stood  by  the  side  of  Lilla ;  the  consciousness  that  she 
had  confessed  her  love,  that  he  might  h&ve  overheard  it,  was 
still  paramount  in  her  modest  bosom ;  and  she  would  have 
avoided  him,  but  quickly  was  her  design  prevented.  Rapidly, 
almost  incoherently,  was  the  conversation  of  the  last  half  hour 
repeated,  and  with  all  the  eloquence  of  his  enthusiastic  nature, 
Edward  pleaded  his  cause,  and,  need  it  be  said,  not  in  vain. 
Lilla  neither  wished  nor  sought  to  conceal  her  feelings,  and 
long,  long  did  those  two  young  and  animated  beings  remain  in 
sweet  and  heartfelt  commune  beside  that  lowly  grave. 

"  What  place  so  fitted  where  to  pledge  our  troth,  my  Lilla, 
as  by  my  mother's  resting  place  ?"  said  Edward.  "  Would 
that  she  could  look  upon  us  now.  and  smile  her  blessing." 

Happily  indeed  flew  those  evening  hours  unheeded  by  the 
young  lovers.  Grahame,  on  the  entrance  of  his  happy  child, 
folded  her  to  his  bosom  ;  his  blessing  descended  on  her  head, 
mingled  with  tears,  which  sprung  at  once  from  a  father's  love 
and  self-reproach  at  all  the  suffering  his  irritability  had  occa- 
sioned her.  And  that  evening  Lilla  indeed  felt  that  all  her 
sorrows,  all  her  struggles,  all  her  dutiful  forbearance,  were  re- 
warded. Not  only  was  her  long-cherished  love  returned,  not 
only  did  she  feel  that  in  a  few  short  months  she  would  be  her 
Edward's  own  ;  that  he,  the  brave,  the  gallant,  honored  sailor, 
had  chosen  her  in  preference  to  any  of  those  fairer  and  nobler 
maidens  with  whom  he  had  so  often  associated ;  but  her  father, 
her  dear  father,  was  more  like  himself  than  he  had  been  since 
her  mother's  death.  He  looked,  he  spoke  the  Montrose  Gra- 
hame we  have  known  him  in  former  years.  Edward  had  ever 
been  a  favorite  with  him,  but  he  and  Lilla  had  been  so  inti- 
mate from  their  earliest  childhood,  that  he  had  never  thought 
of  him  as  a  son ;  and  when  the  truth  was  known,  so  truly  did 
Grahame  rejoice,  that  the  bitterness  in  his  earthly  cup  was 
well-nigh  drowned  by  its  present  sweetness. 

Innumerable  were  the  questions  both  Lilla  and  Grahame 
bad  to  ask,  and  Edward  answered  all  with  that  peculiar  joy- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  473r 

ousness  which  ever  threw  a  charm  around  him.  The  adven- 
tures of  his  voyage,  his  dangers,  the  extraordinary  means  of 
his  long-lost  uucle  being  instrumental  in  his  preservation.  Lord 
Delmout's  varied  tale,  all  was  animatedly  discussed  till  a  late 
aour.  A  smile  was  on  Grahame's  lip.  as  his  now  awakened 
eye  recalled  the  drooping  spirits  and  fading  cheek  of  his  Lilla 
during  those  three  months  of  suspense,  when  Captain  For- 
tescue  was  supposed  drowned,  and  the  equally  strange  and 
sudden  restoration  to  health  and  cheerfulness  when  Ellen's 
letter  was  received,  detailing  her  brother's  safety.  Lilla's 
streaming  eyes  were  hid  on  her  Cover's  shoulder  as  he  detailed 
his  danger,  but  quickly  her  tears  were  kissed  away  ;  thankful- 
ness that  he  was  indeed  spared,  again  filled  her  heart,  and  the 
bright  smile  returned.  He  accounted  for  not  seeking  them 
earlier  by  the  fact  that,  while  they  remained  at  Richmond,  his 
uncle,  whose  health,  from  long-continued  suffering,  was  but 
weakly  established,  could  not  bear  him  out  of  his  sight,  and 
that  he  had  entreated  him  not  to  leave  him  till  they  returned 
to  Oakwood.  This,  young  Fortescue  afterwards  discovered, 
was  to  give  Lord  Delruont  time  for  the  gratification  of  his 
wishes,  which,  from  the  time  he  had  heard  the  line  of  Delmont 
was  extinct,  had  occupied  his  mind.  Many  of  his  fathers  old 
friends  recognized  him  at  "once.  His  father's  and  his  sisters 
friends. were  eager  to  see  and  pay  him  every  attention  in  their 
power.  He  found  himself  ever  a  welcome  and  a  courted  guest, 
and  happiness,  so  long  a  stranger  from  his  breast,  now  faded 
not  again.  To  adopt  Edward  as  his  son,  to  leave  him  heir  to 
his  title  and  estate,  was  now,  as  it  had  been  from  the  first  mo- 
ment he  recognized  his  nephew,  the  dearest  wish  of  his  heart, 
'•  if  it  were  only  to  fulfil  Sir  George  V.'ilraot's  prophecy,"  he 
jestingly  told  the  old  Admiral,  who.  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, warmly  seconded  his  wishes.  The  necessary  formula  met 
with  no  opposition,  and  the  same  day  that  gave  to  Edward  his 
promotion  of  captain,  informed  him  of  the  secretly-formed  and 
secretly-acted  upon  desire  of  his  uncle. 

In  the  time  of  Edward's  grandfather,  the  Delmont  estates, 
•as  some  of  our  readers  may  remember,  were,  from  the  careless- 
ness of  stewards,  and  the  complete  negligence  of  their  lord,  in 
such  an  embarrassed  state,  as  barely  to  return  a  sufficient 
income  for  the  expenses  of  Lord  Delmonts  establishment. 
Affairs,  however,  were  not  in  a  worse  state  than  that  a  little 
energy  and  foresight  might  remedy.  The  guardian  of  Henry 
Manvers,  who,  as  we  know  already,  became  Lord  Delmont 


474  THE  j.roTiirrrs  n:c;;:.:ri;x<E. 

when  only  three  years  old.  had  acted  his  part  with  so  much 
straightforwardness  "and  trust,  that  when  Manvers  came  of  age 
he  found  his  estates  in  such  a  thriving  condition,  that  he  was 
a  very  much  richer  nobleman  than  many  of  his  predecessors 
had  been.  Well  able  to  discern  true  merit,  and  grateful  for 
the  services  already  rendered,  his  guardian,  by  his  earnest 
entreaty,  remained  his  agent  during  his  residence  with  his 
mother  and  sister  in  Switzerland.  There,  living  very  much 
within  his  income,  his  fortune  accumulated,  and  by  his  early 
death  it  fell  to  the  Crown,  from  which  Lord  Belmont.  on  his 
return  from  his  weary  years  of  slavery,  received  it  with  the 
title  of  earl,  bestowed  to  prove  that  the  tale  of  a  British 
sailor's  sufferings  and  indignities  had  not  fallen  unheeded  on 
the  royal  car.  The  long-ban i. shed  seaman  was  presented  to 
his  Majesty  by  the  Duke  of  Clarence  himself,  and  he  had  no 
need  to  regret  the  gracious  interview.  His  intentions  con- 
cerning the  young  officer,  Captain  Fortescue.  met  with  an  un- 
qualified approval.  Ardently  loving  his  profession,  the  royal 
Duke  thought  the  more  naval  heroes  filled  the  nobility  of  his 
country  the  better  for  England,  and  an  invitation  to  Bushy 
Park  was  soon  afterwards  forwarded,  both  to  Lord  Delinont 
and  his  gallant  nephew. 

Edward,  already  well-nigh  beside  himself  by  his  unexpected 
promotion,  no  longer  knew  how  to  contain  the  exuberance  of 
his  spirits,  much  to  the  amusement  of  his  domestic  circle ;  par- 
ticularly to  his  quiet  gentle  sister,  who,  as  she  looked  on  her 
brother,  felt  how  truly,  how  inexpressibly  her  happiness  in- 
creas^d  with  his  prosperity.  She  too  had  wound  herself  round 
tire  heart  of  her  uncle;  she  loved  him,  first  for  his  partiality  to 
her  brother,  but  quickly  her  affection  was  extended  to  himself. 
Mrs.  Hamilton  had  related  to  him  every  particular  of  her  his- 
tory with  which  he  had  been  deeply  and  painfully  affected,  and 
as  he  quickly  perceived  how  much  his  sister's  gentle  firmness 
and  constant  watchfulness  had  done  towards  forming  the  cha- 
racter of  not  only  Edward  and  Ellen  but  of  her  own  children, 
his  admiration  for  her  hourly  increased. 

A  very  few  days  brought  Lord  Delmont  and  his  niece  Ellen 
to  Mr.  Grahame's  cottage,  and  Lilla's  delight  at  seeing  Ellen 
was  only  second  to  that  she  felt  when  Edward  came.  The 
presence,  the  cordial  greeting  of  Lord  Delmont.  removed  from 
the  mind  of  Grahame  every  remaining  doubt  of  his  approbation 
of  the  bride  his  nephew  had  chosen.  As  a  faithful  historian, 
however,  I  must  acknowledge  the  wishes  if  Lord  Delmont  had 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  473 

pointed  out  Lady  Emily  Lyle  as  the  most  suitable  connection 
for  Edward.  Lady  Florence  he  would  have  preferred,  but 
there  were  many  whispers  going  about  that  she  was  engaged 
to  tlie  bandbome  young  baronet  Sir  Walter  Cameron,  who,  by 
.'the  death  of  his  uncle  Sir  Hector,  had  lately  inherited  some 
extensive  estates  in  the  south-west  of  Scotland.  When,  how- 
ever, Lord  Delmont  perceived  his  nephew's  affections  were 
irrevocably  fixed,  and  he  heard  from  his  sister's  lips  the  cha- 
racter of  Lilla  Grahame.  he  made  no  opposition,  but  consented 
with  much  warmth  and  willingness.  He  was  not  only  content, 
but  resolved  on  being  introduced  to  Miss  Grahame  as  sooj  as 
possible,  without,  however,  saying  a  word  to  Edward  of  his  in- 
tentions. He  took  Ellen  with  him.  he  said,  to  convoy  him 
safely  and  secure  him  a  welcome  reception  ;  neither  of  which, 
she  assured  him,  he  needed,  though  she  very  gladly  accom- 
panied him. 

A  few  weeks  passed  too  quickly  by,  imparting  happiness 
even  to  Ellen,  for  had  she  been  permitted  the  liberty  of  choos- 
ing a  wife  for  her  Edward,  Lilla  Grahame  would  have  been 
her  choice.  Deeply  and  almost  painfully  affected  had  she 
been  indeed,  when  her  brother  first  sought  her  to  reveal  the 
secret  of  his  love. 

"  I  cannot,"  he  said,  u  I  will  not  marry  without  your  sym- 
pathy, your  approval,  my  sister — my  more  than  sister,  my 
faithful  friend,  my  gentle  monitress,  for  such  you  have  ever 
been  to  me  "  And  he  folded  her  in  his  arms  with  a  brother's 
love,  and  Ellen  had  concealed  upon  his  manly  bosom  the  glis- 
tening tears,  whose  source  she  scarcely  knew.  '-I  would  have 
you  love  my  wife,  not  only  for  my  sake  but  for  herself  alone. 
Never  will  I  marry  one  who  will  refuse  to  look  on  you  with 
the  reverential  affection,  your  brother  does.  Lilla  Grahame 
does  this,  my  Ellen  ;  it  was  her  girlish  affection  for  you  that 
first  attracted  my  attention  to  her.  She  will  regard  you  as  I 
do ;  she  will  teach  her  children,  if  it  please  Heaven  to  grant  us 
any,  to  look  on  you  even  as  I  would ;  her  heart  and  home  will 
be  as  open  to  my  beloved  sister  as  mine.  Speak  then,  my  ever 
cherished,  ever  faithful  friend  ;  tell  me  if.  in  seeking  Lilla,  your 
blessing  will  be  mine." 

Tears  of  joy  choked  her  utterance,  but  quickly  recovering 
herself.  Ellen  answered  him  in  a  manner  calculated  indeed  to 
increase  his  happiness,  and  her  presence  at  Llangwillan  satis- 
fied every  wish. 

Unable  to  resist  the  eloquent  entreaties  of  all  his  friends 


476  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

and  the  appealing  eyes  of  his  child,  Grahame  at  last  consented 
to  spend  the  month,  which  was  to  intervene  ere  .his  daughter's 
nuptials,  at  Oakwood.  That  period  Edward  intended  to  cm- 
ploy  in  visiting  the  ancient  hall  on  the  Delmont  estate,  •which 
for  the  last  three  months  had  been  in  a  state  of  active  prepara- 
tion for  the  reception  of  its  long-absent  master.  It  was  beau- 
tifully situated  in  the  vicinity  of  the  New  Forest,  HampshLe. 
There  Edward  was  to  take  his  bride,  considering  the  whole 
estite,  his  uncle  declared,  already  as  his  own,  as  he  did  not 
mean  to  be  a  fixture  there,  but  live  alternately  with  his  sister 
and  his  nephew.  Oakwood  should  see  quite  as  much  or  him 
as  Beech  Hill,  and  young  people  were  better  alone,  particularly 
the  first  year  of  their  marriage.  Vainly  Edward  and  Lilla 
sought  to  combat  his  resolution  ;  the  only  concession  they 
could  obtain  was,  that  when  their  honeymoon  was  over,  he  anu. 
Ellen  would  pay  them  a  visit,  just  to  see  how  they  were  get- 
ting on. 

""  You  must  never  marry.  Nelly,  for  I  don't  knc.v  what  my 
aister  will  do  without  you,"  said  Lord  Delmont. 

"  Be  assured,  uncle  Charles,  I  never  will.  I  love  the  free- 
dom of  this  old  hall  much  too  well ;  and,  unless  rny  aunt  abso- 
lutely sends  me  away,  I  shall  not  go." 

"And  that  she  never  will,  Ellen,"  said  L.lla.  earnestly. 
"  She  said  the  other  day  she  did  not  know  how  she  should  ever 
spare  you  even  to  us ;  but  you  must  come  to  us  very  often, 
dearest  Ellen.  I  shall  never  perform  my  part  well  as  mistress 
of  the  large  establishment  with  which  Edward  threatens  me, 
without  your  counsel  and  support." 

'•  I  will  not  come  at  all.  if  you  and  Edward  lay  your  wise 
heads  together,  as  you  already  seem  inclined  to  do,  to  win  me 
by  flatter?,"  replied  Ellen,  playfully,  endeavoring  to  look  grave, 
though  sho  refused  not  the  kiss  of  peace  for  which  Lilla  looked 
up  so  appealing!}-. 

The  first  week  in  July  was  fixed  for  the  celebration  of  the 
two  marriages  in  Mr.  Hamilton's  family.  As  both  Edward  arid 
Percy  wished  the  ceremony  should  take  place  in  the  parish 
church  of  Oakwood,  and  be  performed  by  Archdeacon  Howard, 
it  was  agreed  the  same  day  should  witness  both  bridals:  and 
that  Miss  Manvers.  who  had  been  residing  at  Castle  Terryn 
with  the  Earl  and  Countess  St.  Eval.  should  accompany  them 
to  Oakwood  a  few  days  previous  Young  Hamilton  took  hif 
bride  to  Paris,  to  which  capital  he  had  been  intrusted  with 
Borne  government  commission.  It  was  not  till  the  end  of  Juiy 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  477 

he  had  originally  intended  his  nuptials  should  take  place ;  but 
he  did  not  choose  to  leave  England  for  an  uncertain  period 
without  his  Louisa,  and  consequently  it  was  agreed  their  honey- 
moon  should  be  passed  in  France.  It  may  be  well  to  mention 
here  that  Mr.  Hamilton  had  effected  the  exchange  he  desired, 
and  that  Arthur  Myrvin  and  his  beloved  Emmeline  were  now 
comfortably  installed  in  the  Rectory,  which  had  been  so  long 
the  residence  of  Mr.  Howard  :  and  that  Myrvin  now  performed 
his  pastoral  duties  in  a  manner  that  reflected  happiness  not 
only  on  his  parishioners,  but  on  all  his  friends,  and  enabled  him 
to  enjoy  that  true  peace  springing  from  a  satisfied  conscience. 
He  trod  in  the  steps  of  his  lamented  friend  ;  he  knew  not  him- 
self how  often  his  poor  yet  contented  flock  compared  him  in 
their  humble  cottages  with  Herbert,  and  that  in  their  eyes  he 
did  not  lose  by  the  comparison.  Some,  indeed,  would  say,  ';  It 
is  all  Master  Herbert's  example,  and  the  society  of  that  sweet 
young  creature,  Miss  Emmeline,  that  has  made  him  what  he 
is.:;  But  whatever  might  be  the  reason,  Arthur  was  univer- 
sally beloved  :  and  that  the  village  favorite.  Miss  Emmeline, 
who  had  grown  up  amongst  them  from  infancy,  was  their  Rec- 
tor's wife;  that  she  still  mingled  amongst  them  the  same  gen- 
tle, loveable  being  she  had  ever  been ;  that  it  was  to  her.  and 
not  to  a  stranger,  they  were  ever  at  liberty  to  seek  for  relief 
"n  trouble,  or  sympathy  in  joy.  was  indeed  a  source  of  un- 
bounded pleasure  ;  and  Emmeline  wa.«  happy,  truly,  gratefully 
happy.  Never  did  she  regret  the  choice  she  had  made,  nor 
envy  her  family  the  higher  stations  "of  life  it  was  theirs  to  fill. 
She  had  not  a  wish  beyond  the  homes  of  those  she  loved ;  her 
husband  was  all  in  all  to  her,  her  child  a  treasure  for  which 
she  could  not  be  sufliciently  thankful.  She  was  still  the  saiie 
playful,  guileless  being  to  her  family  which  she  had  ever  been  ; 
but  to  strangers  a  greater  degree  of  dignity  characterized  her 
deportment,  and  commanded  their  involuntary  respect.  The 
home  of  Arthur  Myrvin  was  indeed  one  over  which  peace  and 
love  had  entwined  their  roseate  wings  ;  a  lowly,  yet  a  beau- 
teous spot,  over  which  the  storms  of  the  busy,  troubled  world, 
might  burst  but  never  reach  ;  and  for  other  sorrows  piety  and 
submission  were  alike  their  watchword  and  their  safeguard. 
Lord  St.  Eval  was  the  only  person  who  regretted  Arthur's 
promotion  to  the  rectory  of  Oakwood,  as  it  deprived  him.  he 
declared,  of  his  chaplain,  his  vicar,  and  his  friend.  However, 
he  willingly  accepted  a  friend  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  to  supply  his 
place,  a  clergyman  not  much  beyond  the  prime  of  life :  one 


478  THE  .MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

who  for  seven  years  had  devoted  himself,  laboriously  and  un« 
eeasingly.  to  a  poor  and  unprofitable  parish  in  one  of  the  Feroc 
Islands ;  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Hamilton  he  had  been  emploj'ed, 
though  voluntarily  he  had  accepted,  nay,  eloquently  he  had 
pleaded,  for  the  office.  To  those  of  our  readers  who  are  ac- 
quainted with  the  story  of  Home  Influence,  the  Rev.  Henry 
Moreton  is  no  stranger.  They  may  remember  that  he  accom- 
panied Mr.  Hamilton  on  his  perilous  expedition,  and  had  joy- 
fully consented  to  remaining  there  till  the  young  Christian, 
Wilson,  was  capable  of  undertaking  the  ministry.  He  had 
done  so ;  his  pupil  promised  fair  to  reward  his  every  care,  and 
preserve  his  countrymen  in  that  state  of  peace,  prosperity,  and 
virtue,  to  which  they  had  been  brought  by  the  unceasing  cares 
of  Moreton  ;  and  that  worthy  man  returned  to  his  native  lana 
seven  years  after  he  had  quitted  it,  improved  not  only  in 
inward  peace  but  in  health,  and  consequently  appearances.  A 
perceptible  lameness  was  now  the  only  remains  of  what  had 
been  before  painful  deformity.  The  bracing  air  of  the  island 
had  invigorated  his  nerves ;  the  consciousness  that  he  was  ac- 
tive m  the  service  of  his  fellow-creatures  removed  from  his 
mind  the  morbid  sensibility  that  had  formerly  so  oppressed 
him ;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  perceived,  with  benevolent 
pleasure,  that  life  was  to  him  no  longer  a  burden.  He  had 
become  a  cheerful,  happy  member  of  society,  willing  to  enjoy 
the  blessings  that  now  surrounded  him  with  a  truly  chastened, 
grateful  spirit. :  Oakwood  and  Castle  Terryn  were  ever  en- 
livened when  he  was  present.  After  the  cold  and  barren  living 
at  Feroe,  exiled  as  he  there  had  been  from  any  of  his  own  rank 
in  life,  the  Vicarage  at  Castle  Terryn  and  the  society  those 
duties  included,  formed  to  him  indeed  a  happy  resting-place ; 
while  his  many  excellent  qualities  soon  reconciled  St.  Eval  and 
his  Countess  to  Myrvin's  desertion,  as  they  called  his  accepting 
the  Rectory  at  Oakwood.  No  untoward  event  occurred  to 
prevent  the  celebration  of  Percy  and  Edward's  bridals  as  in- 
tended. They  took  place,  attended  with  all  that  chastened  joy 
and  innocent  festivity,  which  might  have  been  expected  from 
the  characters  of  those  principally  concerned.  No  cloud  ob- 
scured the  happiness  of  the  affectionate,  united  family,  who 
witnessed  these  gladdening  nuptials.  Each  might,  perhaps,  in 
secret  have  felt  there  was  one  blank  in  every  heart,  that  when 
thus  united,  there  was  still  a  void  on  earth.  In  their  breasts 
the  fond  memory  of  Herbert  lingered  still.  Mr.  Grahame  for- 
got his  moroseness,  though  he  had  resolved  on  returning  to  his 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  479 

cottage  in  Wales.  He  could  feel  nothing  but  delight  as  he 
looked  on  his  Lilla  in  her  chaste  and  simple  bridal  robes,  and 
felt  that  of  her  he  might  indeed  be  proud.  Fondly  he  dried 
the  tear  that  fell  from  her  bright  eyes,  as  she  clung  to  him  in 
parting,  and  promised  to  see  her  soon,  very  soon,  at  Beech  Hill. 

It  was  the  amusement  of  the  village  gossips  for  many  a 
long  evening  to  discuss,  over  and  over  again,  the  various  merits 
of  the  two  brides  ;  some  preferring  the  tearful,  blushing  Lilla, 
others  the  pale,  yet  composed  and  dignified  demeanor  of  Miss 
Mauvers.  Some  said  Captain  Fortescue  looked  much  more 
agitated,  than  he  did  when  he  saved  his  uncle's  life  off  Dart- 
mouth, some  years  before  ;  it  was  marvellously  strange  for  a 
brave  young  officer  such  as  he,  to  be  so  flustered  at  such  a  sim- 
ple thing  as  taking  a  pretty  girl  for  better  or  worse.  And  Mr. 
Percy  Hamilton,  some  said,  was  very  much  too  serious  for 
such  a  joyous  occasion  ;  if  they  had  been  Miss  Manvers  they 
should  not  have  liked  it — and  so  unlike  himself,  too. 

'•  Hold  your  tongue,  silly  woman,"  a  venerable  old  man  in- 
terposed, at  this  part  of  the  conversation,  •'  the  poor  lad's 
thoughts  were  with  his  brother,  to  whom  t'uis  clay  would  have 
been  as  great  a  source  of  joy  as  to  himself.  He  has  not  been 
the  same  man  since  dear  Master  Herbert's  death,  and  no  won- 
dev.  poor  fellow." 

This  observation  effectually  put  an  end  to  the  remarks  on 
Percy's  demeanor,  and  some  owned,  alter  all,  marriage  was 
somehow  a  solemn  ceremony,  and  it  w<is  better  to  be  too  se- 
rious at  such  a  time  than  too  gay. 

Percy  and  his  bride  stayed  a  week  in  London,  and  thence 
proceeded  to  Paris,  which  place,  a  very  short  scrutiny  con- 
vinced Percy,  was  internally  in  no  quiet  condition ;  some  dis- 
turbance, he  was  convinced,  was  threatening,  though  of  what 
nature  he  could  not  at  first  comprehend.  He  had  not,  how- 
ever, left  England  a  fortnight  before  his  family  were  alarmed 
by  the  reports  which  so  quickly  flew  over  to  our  island,  of  that 
extraordinary  revolution  which  in  three  short  days  completely 
changed  the  sovereign  dynasty  of  France,  and  threatened  a 
renewal  of  those  horrors  which  had  deluged  that  fair  capital 
with  blood,  in  the  time  of  the  unfortunate  Louis  XVT.  Wo 
have  neither  space  nor  inclination  to  enter  into  such  details; 
60!hC  extracts  of  a  letter  from  Percy,  which  Mr.  Hamilton  re- 
ceived, after  a  week  of  extreme  anxiety  on  his  account,  we  feel, 
however,  compelled  to  transcribe,  as  the  ultimate  fates  of  twc 
individuals,  whose  names  have  more  than  once  been  mentioned 


480  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

in  the  course  of  these  memoirs,  may  there  perhaps  be  discov- 
ered. 

"  Your  anxiety,  my  dearest  mother,  and  that  of  my  father 
and  Ellen,  I  can  well  understand,  but  for  myself  I  had  no  fear. 
Had  I  been  alone,  I  believe  a  species  of  pleasurable  excite- 
ment would  have  been  the  prevailing  feeling,  but  for  my  Lou- 
isa I  did  tremble  very  often  ;  the  scenes  passing  around  us 
were,  to  a  gentle  eye  and  feeling  heart,  terrible  indeed,  and  so 
suddenly  they  had  come  upon  us,  we  had  no  time  to  attempt 
retreat  to  a  place  of  greater  safety.  Cannon-balls  were  flying 
in  all  directions,  shattering  the  windows,  killing  some,  and 
fearfully  wounding  many  others  ;  for  several  hours  I  concealed 
Louisa  in  the  cellar,  which  was  the  only  secure  abode  our 
house  presented.  Mounted  guards,  to  the  number  of  six  or 
seven  hundred,  were  dashing  down  the  various  streets  with  a 
npise  like  thunder,  diversified  only  by  the  clash  of  arms,  the 
shrieks  of  the  wounded,  and  the  fierce  cries  of  the  populace 
It  was  indeed  terrible — the  butchery  of  lives  has  indeed  been 
awful ;  in  these  sanguinary  conflicts  between  desperate  men, 
pent  up  in  narrow  streets,  innocent  lives  have  also  been  taken, 
for  it  was  next  to  impossible  to  distinguish  between  those  who 
took  an  active  part  in  the  affray,  and  those  who  were  merely 
paralyzed  spectators.  In  their  own  defence  the  gens  d'armes 
were  compelled  to  fire,  and  their  artillery  did  fearful  havoc 
among  the  people. 

Crossing  the  Quai  de  la  Tournelle,  at  the  commencement  of 
the  first  day,  I  was  startled  by  being  addressed  by  name,  and 
turning  round,  beheld,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  Cecil  Gra- 
liame  at  n>y  elbow ;  he  was  in  the  uniform  of  a  gend'arme,  in 
which  corps,  he  told  me  with  some  glee,  his  brother-in-law, 
Lord  Alphinghatn,  who  was  high  in  favor  with  the  French 
court,  had  obtained  him  a  commission;  he  spoke  lightly,  and 
with  that  same  recklessness  of  spirit  and  want  of  principle 
which  unfortunately  has  ever  characterized  him,  declaring  lie 
was  far  better  off  than  he  had  ever  been  in  England,  which 
country  he  hoped  never  to  see  again,  as  he  utterly  abhorred 
the  very  sight  of  it.  The  French  people  were  rather  more 
agreeable  to  live  with ;  he  could  enjoy  his  pleasures  without 
any  confounded  restraint.  I  suppose  he  saw  how  little  I  sym- 
pathized in  his  excited  spirits,  for,  with  a  hoarse  laugh  and  an 
oath  of  levity,  he  swore  that  I  had  not  a  bit  more  spirit  in  me 
than  when  I  was  a  craven-hearted  lad,  always  cringing  before 
the  frown  of  a  saintly  father,  and  therefore  no  fit  companion 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  48 1 

for  a  jolly  fellow  like  himself.  '  Have  you  followed  Herbert's 
example,  and  are  you,  too,  a  godly-minded  parson?  then,  good 
day.  and  good  riddance  to  you.  niy  lad,'  was  the  conclusion  of 
his  boisterous  speech  ;  and  setting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he  would 
have  galloped  off,  when  I  detained  him  to  ask  why  he  lia<J  not 
informed  his  family  of  his  present  place  of  abode  and  snusvion; 
my  blood  had  boiled  as  he  spoke,  that  rude  and  scurrilous  lips 
should  thus  scornfully  have  spoken  my  sainted  brother's  name; 
passion  rose  fierce  within  me,  but  I  thought  of  him  whose 
name  he  spoke,  and  was  calm.  He  swore  that  he  had  had 
quite  enough  of  his  father's  severity,  that  he  never  meant  to 
see  his  face  again.  He  was  now,  thank  heaven,  his  own  mas- 
ter, and  would  take  care  to  remain  so ;  that  he  had  been  a  fool 
to  address  me.  as  he  might  be  sure  I  should  tell  of  his  doings, 
and  bring  the  old  fellow  after  him.  Disgusted  beyond  meas- 
ure, yet  I  could  not  forbear  asking  him  if  he  had  heard  of  his 
mot'.ier's  death.  Without  the  least  change  of  countenance  or 
of  voice,  he  replied— 

';' Heard  of  it,  man.  aye,  and  forgotten  it  by  this;  why, 
it  is  some  centuries  ago.  It  would  have  been  a  good  thing  for 
me  had  she  died  years  before  she  did.' 

-  '  Cecil  Grahame  !'  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  that  rung  in  my 
ears  some  hours  afterwards,  and  I  believe  made  him  start,  dar- 
ing even  as  he  was  ;  '  do  you  know  it  is  your  mother  of  whom 
you  speak?  a  mother  whose  only  fault  towards  you  was  too 
much  love,  a  mother  whose  too  fond  heart  your  cruel  conduct 
broke ;  are  jou  so  completely  devoid  of  feeling  that  not  even 
this  can  move  you  ?' 

"  '  Pray  add  to  your  long  list  of  my  good  mother's  f  erfec- 
tions  a  weakness  that  ruined  me,  that  made  me  the  wrotch  I 
am,'  he  wildly  exclaimed  ;  and  he  clenched  his  hand  and  bit  his 
lip  till  the  blood  came,  while  his  cheek  became  livid  with  some 
feeling  I  could  not  fathom.  He  spurred  his  horse  violently, 
the  spirited  animal  started  forward,  a  kind  of  spell  seemed  to 
rivet  my  eyes  upon  him.  There  was  a  loud  report  of  cannon 
from  the  Place  de  Greve.  several  balls  whizzed  closed  by  me, 
evidently  fired  to  disperse  the  multitude,  who  were  tumultu- 
ously  assembling  on  the  Pont  de  la  Citfe ;  and  ere  I  could  re- 
cover from  the  startling  effects  of  the  report.  I  heard  a  shrill 
Firoam  of  mortal  agony,  and  Cecil  Grahame  fell  from  his  horse 

9  fluttered  corpse. 

***•**• 

For  several  minutes  I  was  wholly  unconscious  of  all  that  WM 
21 


482  THE    MOTHER  S    RECOMPENSE. 

passing  around  me.  I  stood  by  the  body  of  the  unfortunate 
yoang  man,  quite  insensible  to  the  danger  I  was  incurring 
from  the  shot.  I  could  only  see  him  before  my  eyes,  as  I  bad 
known  him  in  his  boyhood  and  his  earliest  youth,  full  of  fair 
promises,  of  hopeful  futurity,  the  darling  of  his  mother's  eye, 
the  pride  of  his  father,  spite  of  his  faults  ;  and  now  what  waa 
he  ?  a  mangled  corpse,  cut  off  without  warning  or  preparation 
in  his  early  youth.  But,  oh,  worse,  far  worse  than  all.  with 
the  words  of  hatred,  of  defiance,  on  his  lips.  I  sought  in  vain 
for  life  ;  there  was  no  sign,  no  hope.  To  attempt  to  rescue 
the  body  was  vain,  the  tumult  was  increasing  fearfully  around 
me  ;  many  gensd'urmcs  were  falling  indiscriminately  with  the 
populace,  and  the  countenance  of  Cecil  was  so  fearfully  dis- 
figured, that  to  attempt  to  recognize  it  when  all  might  again 
be  quiet  would,  I  knew,  be  useless.  One  effort  I  made.  I  in- 
quired for  and  sought  Lord  Alphingham's  hotel,  intending  to 
obtain  his  assistance  in  the  proper  interment  of  this  unfortu- 
nate man,  but  this  was  equally  frustrated. the  hotel  was  closely 
shut  up.  Lord  and  Lady  Alphingham  had.  at  the  earliest 
threatening  of  disturbances,  retreated  to  their  chateau  in  the 
province  of  Champagne.  I  forwarded  the  melancholy  intelli- 
gence to  them,  and  returned  to  my  own  hotel  sick  at  heart 
with  the  sight  I  had  witnessed.  The  fearful  tone  of  his  lust 
words,  the  agonized  shriek,  rung  in  my  cars  as  the  .shattered 
form  and  face  floated  before  my  eyes,  with  a  tenacity  no  dlort 
of  my  own  or  even  of  my  Louisa's  could  <Hspcl.  Oh,  mj 
mother,  what  do  I  not  owe  you  for  guarding  me  from  the 
temptations  that  have  assailed  this  wretched  youn^  man.  01 
rather  for  imprinting  on  my  infant  mind  tlio.se  principles 
which,  with  the  blessing  of  our  heavenly  Father,  have  tlnn 
preserved  me.  Naturally,  my  temper,  my  pnssions.  wen;  like 
his.  in  nothing  was  I  his  superior  ;  but  it  was  your  hand,  your 
prayers,  my  mother,  planted  the  seeds  of  virtue,  your  gentle 
firmness  eradicated  those  faults  which,  had  they  Ivm  fo.-<lrred 
by  indulgence,  might  have  rendered  my  life  like  Cecil  <<r;i- 
hamc's.  and  exposed  me  in  the  end  to  a  death  like  his.  Whai 
would  have  availed  my  father's  judicious  guidance,  my  brother'* 
mild  example,  had  not  the  soil  been  prepared  by  a  mother's 
hand  and  watered  by  a  mother's  prayers?  B!<  thou 

sand  blessings  on  your  head,  my  mother  !  0!i.  m;iy  my  chil- 
dren learn  to  bless  theirs  even  as  I  do  mine  ;  1  hey  canifot  know 
a  purer  joy  on  earth. 


THE    MOTHER  S    RECOMPENSE.  483 

"  Wo  have  arrived  at  Rouen  in  safety.  I  am  truly  thank- 
ful to  feel  my  beloved  wife  is  far  from  the  scene  of  confusion 
and  danger  to  which  she  had  been  so  unavoidably  exposed 
I  am  not  deceived  in  her  strength  of  nerve,  my  dear  mother: 
I  did  not  think,  when  I  boasted  of  it  as  one  of  her  truly  valu- 
able ue;|uirements,  I  should  so  soon  have  seen  it  put  *to  the 
proof:  to  her  letter  to  Caroline  I  refer  you  for  all  entertaining 
matter. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"  I  have  been  interrupted  by  an  interview  as  unexpected 
a?  it  promises  to  be  gratifying.  One  dear  to  us  all  may.  at 
length,  rejoice  there  is  hope;  but  I  dare  not  say  too  much, 
for  the  health  of  this  unhappy  young  man  is  so  sluUtercd.  he 
may  never  yet  embrace  his  mother.  l>ut  to  be  more  explicit. 
I  was  engaged  in  writing,  unconsciously  with  the  door  of  my 
apartment  half  open,  when  I  was  roused  by  the  voice  of  the 
waitei.  exclaiming,  •  Not  that  room.  sir.  if  you  please,  yours  is 
yonder.1  t  looked  up  and  met  the  glance  of  a  young  man. 
whom,  notwithstanding  the  long  lapse  of  years,  spite  of  faded 
form  and  attenuated  features,  I  recognized  on  the  instant.  It 
was  Alfred  Grevillo.  I  was  far  more  surprised  and  inconceiv- 
ably more  shocked  than  when  Cecil  OJruhame  crossed  mv 
path  ;  L  had  marked  no  change  in  the  features  or  the  expres- 
sion of  the  latter,  but  both  in  Alfred  (ireville  were  so  totally 
altered,  that  he  stood  before  me  the  living  image  of  his  sister, 
a  likeness  I  had  never  perceived  before.  1  was  too  much 
astonished  to  address  him.  and  before  I  could  frame  words,  he 
had  sprung  forward,  with  a  burning  Hush  on  either  cheek,  and 
grasping  my  hatij.  wildly  exclaimed.  •  Po  not  shun  me.  H;.mil- 
ton.  1  am  not  ye.  an  utter  reprobate.  Tell  me  of  my  mother; 
does  she  ' 

"She  does.''  I  replied  ;  instantly  a  burst  of  thanksgiving 
brok?  from  his  lips,  at  least  so  I  imagined,  from  the  expn  a 
of  his  features,  for  there  were  no  articulate  sounds,  and  a 
swoon  resembling  death  immediately  followed.  Medical  as- 
sistance was  instantly  procured,  but  though  actual  insensibility 
was  not  of  long  continuance,  he  is  pronounced  to  be  in  such 
un  utterly  exhausted  state,  that  we  dare  not  encourage  : 
for  his  final  recovery  ;  yet  still  I  cannot  but  believe  he  will 
be  spared — spared  not  only  in  health,  but  as  a  reformer  and 
better  man.  to  bless  that  mother,  whose  cares  for  him.  cospito 
long  years  of  difficulties  and  sorrow,  have  never  failed.  In 
Vain  I  entreated  him  not  to  exhaust  himself  by  sneaking; 


484  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

that  I  would  not  leave  him,  and  if  he  would  only  be  quiet,  ha 
might  be  better  able  on  the  morrow  to  tell  me  all  he  desired 
He  would  not  be  checked ;  he  might  not,  he  said,  be  spared 
many  hours,  and  he  must  speak  ere  he  died.     Comparatively 
speaking,   but  little   actual   vice   has  stained  the  conduct  of 
Greville.     Throughout  all  his  career  the  remembrance  of  his 
mother  has  often,  very  often  mingled  in  his  gayest  hours,  and 
dashed  them  with  remorseful  bitterness.     He  owns  that  often 
of  late  years  her  image,  and  that  of  his  sister   Mary,  have 
risen  so  mildly,  so  impressively  before   him,  that  he  has  flown 
almost  like  a  maniac  from  the  gay  and  heartless  throngs,  and 
as  the  thoughts  of  home  and  his  infancy,  when  he  first  lisped 
out  his  boyish  prayer  by  the  side  of  his  sister  at  his  mother's 
knee,  came  thronging  over  him,  he  has  sobbed  and  wept  like  a 
child.     These  feelings  returned  at   length   so   often    and-  so 
powerfully,  that  he  felt  to  resist  them  was  even  more  difficult 
and  painful  than  to  break  from  the  flowery  chains  which  his 
gay  companions  had  woven  round  him.     He  declared  his  reso- 
lution ;  he  resisted  ridicule  and  persuasion.     Almost  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he   remained  steadily  firm,  and  when  he 
had  indeed  succeeded,  and  found  himself  some  distance  from 
the   scenes   of  luxurious  pleasures,  he  felt  himself  suddenly 
endowed  with  an  elasticity  of  spirit,  which  he  had  not  experienced 
for  many  a  long  year.     The  last  tidings  he  had  received  of  his 
mother  and  sister  were  that  they  were  at  Paris,  and  thither  he 
determined  to  go,  having  parted  from  his  companions  at  Flor- 
ence.    During  the  greater  part  of  his  journey  to  the  French 
capital,  he  fancied  his  movements  were  watched  by  a  stranger, 
gentlemanly  in  his  appearance,  and  not  refusing  to  enter  into 
conversation  when  G-reville  accosted  him  ;  but  still  Alfred  did" 
not  feel  satisfied  with  his  companionship,  though  to  get  rid  of 
him  seemed  an  impossibility,  for  however  he  changed  his  course, 
the  day  never  passed  without  his  shadow  darkening  Greville's 
path.    Within  about  eighty  miles  of  Paris,  however,  he  lost  all 
traces  of  him,  and  he  then  reproached  himself  tor  indulging  iu 
unnecessary  fears.     He  was  not  in  Paris  two  days,  however, 
before,  to  his  utter  astonishment,  he  was  arrested  and  thrown 
into   prison   on  the  charge  of  forging  bank-notes,  two  years 
previous,  to    a  very  considerable   amount.     In   vain   he  pro- 
tested against  the  accusation,  alleging  at  that  time  he  had  been 
in  Italy  and  not  in  Paris.     Notes  bearing  his  own  signature, 
and  papers  betraying  other  misdemeanors,  were  brought  for- 
ward, and  on  their  testimony  and  that  of  the  stranger,  whose 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  485 

name  he  found  to  be  Dupont.,  he  was  thrown  into  prison  to 
await  his  trial.  To  him  the  whole  business  was  an  impenetra- 
ble mystery.  To  us,  my  dear  father,  it  is  all  clear  as  day. 
Poor  Mrs.  Greville's  fears  were  certainly  not  without  founda- 
tion, and  when  affairs  are  somewhat  more  quiet  in  Paris  I  sliall 
leave  no  stone  unturned  to  prove  young  Greville's  perfect  in- 
nocence to  the  public,  and  bring  that  wretch  Dupont  to  the 
same  justice  to  which  his  hatred  would  have  condemned  tho 
son  of  his  old  companion.  Alfred's  agitation  on  hearing  my 
explanation  of  the  circumstance  was  extreme.  The  errors  of 
his  father  appeared  to  fall  heavily  en  him,  and  yet  he  uttered 
no  word  of  reproach  on  his  memory.  The  relation  of  his  me- 
lancholy death,  and  the  misery  in  which  we  found  Mrs.  Greville 
and  poor  Mary  affected  him  so  deeply,  I  dreaded  their  effect 
on  his  health  ;  but  this  was  nothing  to  his  wretchedness  when, 
by  his  repeated  questions,  he  absolutely  wrung  from  me  the 
tale  of  his  sister's  death,  his  mother's  desolation  :  no  words  can 
portray  the  extent  of  his  self-reproach.  It  is  misery  to  look 
upon  him  now.  and  feel  what  he  might  have  been,  had  his 
mother  been  indeed  permitted  to  exercise  her  rights.  There 
is  no  happiness  for  Alfred  Greville  this  side  of  the  Channel; 
he  pines  for  home — for  his  mother's  blessing  and  forgiveness, 

and  till  he  receives  them,  health  will  not — cannot  return. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

In  prison  he  remained  for  six  long  weary  months,  with  the 
consciousness  that,  amidst  the  many  light  companions  with 
whom  he  had  associated,  there  was  not  one  to  whom  be  could 
appeal  for  friendship  and  assistance  in  his  present  situation, 
and  the  thoughts  of  his  mother  and  sister  returned  with  greater 
force,  from  the  impossibility  of  learning  any  thing  concerning 
them.  The  hope  of  escaping  never  left  him,  and  with  the 
assistance  of  a  comrade,  he  finally  effected  it  on  the  27th  of 
July,  the  confusion  of  the  city  aiding  him  far  more  effectually 
than  he  believad  possible.  He  came  down  to  Rouen  in  a  coal- 
barge,  so  completely  exhausted,  that  he  declared,  had  not  the 
thought  of  England  and  his  mother  been  uppermost,  he  would 
gladly  have  laid  down  in  the  open  streets  to  die.  To  England 
he  felt  impelled,  he  scarcely  knew  wherefore,  save  that  he  looked 
to  us  for  tho  information  he  so  ardently  desired.  Our  family 
had  often  been  among  his  waking  visions,  and  this  accounts  for' 
the  agitation  I  witnessed  when  I  first  looked  up.  He  said  he 
felt  he  knew  me,  but  he  strove  to  move  or  speak  in  vain ;  he 
could  not  utter  the  only  question  he  wished  to  frame,  and  was 


486         .  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

unable  to  depart  without  being  convinced  if  I  indeed  wer* 
Percy  Hamilton. 

"  'And  now  I  have  seen  you,  what  have  I  learnt?'  he  said, 
as  he  ceased  a  tale,  more  of  sorrow  than  of  crime. 

" '  That  your  mother  lives,'  I  replied,  '  that  she  has  never 
ceased  to  pray  for  and  love  her  son,  that  you  can  yet  be  to  her 
a  blessing  and  support.' 

"  Should  he  wish  her  sent  for,  I  asked,  I  knew  she  would 
not  demand  a  second  summons.  He  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  '  Not  while  I  have  life  enough  to  seek  her.  What !  bring 
her  all  these  miles  to  me.  My  mother,  my  poor  forsaken 
mother.  Oh,  no,  if  indeed  I  may  not  live,  if  strength  be  not 
granted  me  to  seek  -her,  then,  then  it  will  be  time  enough  to 
think  of  beseeching  her  to  come  to  me;  but  not  while  a  hope 
of  life  remains,  speak  not  of  it,  Percy.  Let  her  know  nothing 

of  me.  nothing,  till  I  can  implore  her  blessing  on  my  knees.' 

******* 

"  I  have  ceased  to  argue  with  him,  for  he  is  bent  upon  it, 
and  perhaps  it  is  better  thus.  His  mind  appears  much  re- 
lieved, he  has  passed  a  quiet  night,  and  this  morning  the 
physician  finds  a  wonderful  improvement,  wonderful  to  him 

perhaps,  but  not  to  me." 

******* 

Percy's  letters  containing  the  above  extracts  were  produc- 
tive of  much  interest  to  his  friends  at  Oakwood.  The  details 
of  Cecil's  death,  alleviated  by  sympathy,  were  forwarded  to  his 
father  and  sister.  The  words  that  had  preceded  his  death, 
Mr.  Hamilton  carefully  suppressed  from  his  friend,  and  Mr. 
Grahame,  as  if  dreading  to  hear  any  thing  that  could  confirm^ 
his  son's  reckless  disposition,  asked  no  particulars.  For  three 
months  he  buried  himself  in  increased  seclusion  at  Llangwillan, 
refusing  all  invitations,  and  denying  himself  steadfastly  to  all. 
At  the  termination  of  that  period,  however,  he  once  more  joined 
his  friends,  an  altered  and  a  happier  man.  His  misanthropy 
had  departed,  and  often  Mr.  Hamilton  remarked  to  his  wife, 
that  the  Grahame  of  fifty  resembled  the  Grahame  of  five-and- 
twenty  far  more  than  he  had  during  the  intervening  years. 
Lilla  and  Edward  were  sources  of  such  deep  interest  to  him, 
that  in  their  society  he  seemed  to  forget  the  misery  occasioned 
by  his  other  children.  The  shock  of  her  brother's  death  was 
long  felt  by  Lilla ;  she  sorrowed  that  he  was  thus  suddenly 
cut  off  without  time  for  one  thought  of  eternity,  one  word  of 
panitence,  of  prayer.  The  affection  of  her  husband,  however, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  487 

gradually  drew  from  her  these  melancholy  thoughts,  and  when 
Lord  Delmont  paid  his  promised  visit  to  his  nephew,  he  found 
no  abatement  in  those  light  and  joyous  spirits  which  had  at 
first  a'tracted  him  towards  Lilla. 

Ellen,  at  her  own  particular  request,  had  undertaken  to 
prepare  Mrs.  Greville  for  the  return  of  her  son,  and  the  change 
that  had  taken  place  in  him.  Each  letter  from  Percy  confirmed 
his  recovery,  and  here  we  may  notice,  though  somewhat  out  of 
place,  as  several  months  elapsed  ere  he  was  enabled  fully  to 
succeed,  that,  by  the  active  exertions  of  himself  and  of  the  soli- 
citor his  father  had  originally  employed.  Dupont  was  at  length 
brought  to  justice,  his  criminal  machinations  fully  exposed  to 
view,  and  the  innocence  of  Alfred  Greville,  the  son  of  the  de- 
ceased, as  fully  established  in  the  eyes  of  all  men. 

Gently  and  cautiously  Ellen  performed  her  office,  and  vain 
would  be  the  effort  to  portray  the  feelings  of  the  fond  and  deso- 
late mother,  as  she  anticipated  the  return  of  her  long  absent 
son.  Of  his  own  accord  he  came  back  to  her  ;  he  had  tried  the 
pleasures  of  the  world,  and  proved  them  hollow ;  he  had  formed 
friendships  witli  the  young,  the  gay,  the  bright,  the  lovely,  and 
he  had  found  them  all  wanting  in  stability  and  happiness 
Amid  them  all  his  heart  had  yearned  for  home  and  for  domes- 
tic love  ;  that  mother  had  not  prayed  in  vain. 

Softly  and  beautifully  fell  the  light  of  a  setting  sun  around 
the  pretty  little  cottage  on  the  banks  of  the  Dart,  which  was 
now  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Greville ;  the  lattice  was  thrown 
widely  back,  and  the  perfume  of  unnumbered  flowers  scented 
the  apartment,  which  Ellen's  hand  had  loved  to  decorate,  that 
Mrs.  Greville  might  often,  very  often  forget  she  was  indeed 
alone.  It  was  the  early  part  of  September,  and  a  delicious 
breeze  passed  by,  bearing  health  and  elasticity  upon  its  wing, 
and  breathing  soft  melody  amid  the  trees  and  shrubs.  Softly 
and  calmly  glided  the  smooth  waters  at  the  base  of  the  garden. 
The  green  verandah  running  round  the  cottage  was  filled  with 
beautiful  exotics,  which  Eilen's  hand  had  transported  from  the 
conservatory  at  Oakwood.  It  was  a  sweet  and  soothing  sight 
to  sec  how  judiciously,  how  unassumingly  Ellen  devoted  her- 
self to  the  desolate  mother,  without  once  permitting  that  work 
of  love  to  interfere  with  her  still  nearer,  still  dearer  tics  at 
home.  She  knew  how  Herbert  would  have  loved  and  devoted 
himself  to  the  mother  of  his  Mar}-,  and  in  this,  as  in  all  things, 
she  followed  in  his  steps.  Untiringly  would  she  listen  to  and 
speak  on  Mrs.  Greville's  favorite  theme,  her  Mary ;  and  now 


488  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

she  sat  beside  her,  enlivening  by  gentle  converse  the  hours  that 
must  intervene  ere  Alfred  came.  There  was  an  expression  oJ 
such  calm,  such  chastened  thanksgiving  on  Mrs.  Greville's  fea- 
tures, changed  as  they  were  by  years  of  sorrow,  that  none  could 
gaze  on  her  without  a  kindred  feeling  stealing  over  the  heart 
and  in  very  truth  those  feelings  seemed  reflected  on  the  young 
and  lovely  countenance  beside  her.  A  pensive  yet  a  sweet  and 
pleasing  smile  rested  on  Ellen's  lips,  and  her  dark  eye  shone 
softly  bright  in  the  light  of  sympathy.  Beautiful  indred  were 
the  orphan's  features,  but  not  the  dazzling  beauty  of  early 
youth.  If  a  stranger  had  gazed  on  her  countenance  when  in 
calm  repose,  he  would  have  thought  she  had  seen  sorrow ;  but 
when  that  beaming  smile  of  true  benevolence,  that  eye  of  intel- 
lectual and  soul-speaking  beauty  met  his  glance,  as  certain 
would  he  have  felt  that  sorrow,  whatever  it  might  have  been, 
indeed  had  lost  its  sting. 

':  It  was  such  an  evening,  such  an  hour  my  Mary  died," 
Mrs.  Greville  said,  as  she  laid  her  hand  in  Ellen's.  "  1  thought 
not  then  to  have  reflected  on  it  with  feelings  such  as  now  fill 
my  heart.  Oh,  when  I  look  back  on  my  past  years,  and  recall 
the  prayers  I  have  uttered  in  tears  for  my  son,  my  Alfred,  the 
doubts,  the  fears  that  have  arisen  to  check  my  prayer,  I  wonder 
wherefore  I  am  thus  blessed." 

"  Our  God  is  a  God  of  truth,  and  He  promiseth  to  answer 
prayer,  dearest  Mrs.  Greville,"  replied  Ellen,  earnestly  ;  "  and 
He  is  a  God  of  love,  and  will  bless  those  who  seek  Him  and 
trust  in  Him  as  you  have  done." 

"  He  gave  me  grace  to  trust  in  Him,  my  child.  I  trusted, 
1  doubted  not  He  would  answer  me  in  another  world,  but  I 
thought  not  such  blessing  was  reserved  for  me  in  this.  A 
God  of  love — ay,  in  the  hour  of  affliction.  I  have  felt  Him  so. 
Oh,  may  the  blessings  of  His  loving-kindness,  showered  down 
upon  me,  soften  yet  more  my  heart  to  receive  His  glorious 
image." 

She  ceased  to  speak,  but  her  lips  moved  still  as  in  inward 
prayer.  Some  few  minutes  elapsed,  and  suddenly  the  glowing 
light  of  the  sun  was  darkened,  as  by  an  intervening  shadow. 
The  mother  raised  her  head,  and  in  another  instant  her  son 
was  at  her  feet. 

"  Mother,  can  you  forgive  me.  receive  me  ?  Bid  me  not  go 
forth — I  cannot,  may  not  leave  you." 

"  Go  forth,  my  son,  my  son — no,  never,  never  !"  she  cried, 
and  clasping  him  to  her  bosom,  the  quick  glad  tears  fell  fast 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECO.MPEXSE.  489 

upon  Ins  brow.  She  released  him  to  gaze  again  and  again  upon 
his  face,  and  fold  him  closer  to  her  heart,  to  read  in  those 
sunken  features,  that  faded  form,  the  tale  that  he  had  come 
back  to  her  heart  and  to  her  home,  never,  never  more  to  leave 
her.  • 

Tn  that  one  moment  years  of  error  were  forgotten.  The 
mother  only  felt  she  held  her  son  to  her  heart,  a  suffering,  yet 
an  altered  and  a  better  man  ;  and  he,  that  he  knelt  once  more 
beside  his  mother,  forgiven  and  beloved. 


CONCLUSION. 

AND  now,  what  can  we  more  say?  "Will  nit  the  memoirs  of 
the  Hamilton  family,  and  those  intimately  connected  with  them, 
indeed  be  deemed  complete  ?  It  was  our  intention  to  trace  in 
the  first  part  of  our  tale,  the  cares,  the  joys,  the  sorrows  of  pa- 
rental love,  during  the  years  of  childhood  and  earliest  youth  ; 
in  the  second,  to  mark  the  effect  of  those  cares,  when  those  on 
whom  they  were  so  lavishly  bestowed,  attained  a  period  of  life 
in  which  it  depends  more  upon  themselves  than  on  their  pa- 
rents to  frame  their  own  happiness  or  misery,  as  far.  at  least, 
as  we  ourselves  can  do  so.  It  may  please  our  Almighty  Father 
to  darken  our  earthly  course  by  the  trial  of  adversity,  and  yet 
that  peace  founded  on  religion,  which  it  was  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton's  first  care  to  inculcate,  may  seldom  be  disturbed. 
It  may  please  Him  to  bless  us  with  prosperity,  but  from  cha- 
racters su^h  as  Annie  Grahame  happiness  is  a  perpetual  exile, 
which  no  prosperity  has  power  to  recall.  We  have  followed 
Mr.  Hamilton's  family  from  childhood,  we  have  known  them 
from  their  earliest  years,  and  now  that  it  has  become  their 
parts  to  feel  those  same  cares  and  joys,  and  perform  those  pre- 
cious but  solemn  duties  which  we  have  watched  in  Mrs.  Ha- 
milton, our  task  is  dine  ;  and  we  must  bid  farewell  to  those  we 
have  known  and  loved  so  long ;  those  whom  we  have  seen  tho 
happy  inmates  of  one  home,  o'er  whom — 

"  The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night," 

who  shared  the  same  joys,  the  same  cares,  whose  deepest  affec- 
tions were  confined  to  their  parents  and  each  other,  are  now 
scattered  in  different  parts  of  their  native  land,  distinct  mem- 
bers of  society,  each  with  his  own  individual  cares  and  joys, 
with  new  and  precious  ties  to  divide  that  heart  whose  whole 
21* 


490  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

affection  had  once  been  centred  in  one  spot  and  in  one  circle ; 
and  can  we  be  accused,  in  thus  terminating  our  simple  annals, 
of  wandering  from  the  real  course  of  life?  Is  it  not  thus  with 
very  many  families  of  England  ?  Are  not  marriage  and  death 
twined  hand  in  hand,  to  render  that  home  desolate  which  once 
resounded  with  the  laugh  of  many  glcesome  hearts,  with  tho 
glad  tones  of  youthful  revelling  and  joy  ?  True,  in  those  halla 
they  often  meet  again,  and  the  hearts  of  the>  parents  arc  not 
lone,  for  the  family  of  each  child  is  a  source  of  inexpressible 
interest  to  them  ;  there  is  still  a  link,  a  precious  link  to  bind 
them  together,  but  vain  and  difficult  would  be  the  attempt  to 
continue  the  history  of  a  family  when  thus  dispersed'.  Sweet 
and  pleasing  the  task  to  watch  the  unfledged  nestlings  while 
under  a  mother's  fostering  wing,  but  when  they  spread  their 
wings  and  fly,  where  is  the  eye  or  pen  that  can  follow  them  ou 
their  eager  way? 

Ouce  more,  but  once,  we  will  glance  within  the  halls  of 
Oakwood,  and  then  will  we  bid  them  farewell,  for  our  task  will 
be  done,  and  the  last  desires  of  fancy,  we  trust,  to  have  ap- 
peased. 

It  was  in  September,  of  the  year  1830,  we  closed  our  narra- 
tive. Let  us  then,  for  one  moment,  imagine  the  veil  of  fancy 
is  upraised  on  the  first  day  of  the  year  1838,  and  gaze  within 
that  self-same  room,  which  twenty  years  before  we  had  seen 
lighted  up  on  a  similar  occasion,  the  anniversary  of  a  new 
year,  bright  with  youthful  beauty,  and  enlivened  by  the  silvery 
laugh  of  early  childhood.  But  few,  very  few,  were  the  strangers 
that  this  night  mingled  with  Mr.  Hamilton's  family.  It  was 
not,  as  it  had  beeu  twenty  years  previous,  a  children's  ball,  on 
which  we  glance.  It  was  but  the  happy  reunion  of  every 
member  of  that  truly  happy  family ;  and  the  lovely  mirthful 
children  there  assembled,  were,  with  the  exception  of  a  very 
few.  closely  connected  one  with  another,  by  the  near  relation- 
ship of  brothers,  sisters,  and  cousins.  In  Mr.  arid  Mrs.  Ha- 
milton, Mrs.  Greville,  Montrose  Grahame,  Lucy  Harcourt, 
and  Mr.  Moreton.  who  were  all  present,  time  had,  comparatively 
made  but  little  difference ;  but  it  was  in  those  who,  twenty 
years  before,  had  so  well  acted  the  part  of  youthful  entertain' 
ers  to  their  various  guests,  that  the  change  was  striking,  yet 
far,  very  far  from  being -mournful. 

On  one  side  might  be  seen  Percy  Hamilton,  M.  P.,  in  ear 
n°«t  yet  pleasurable  conversation  with  Mr.  Grahame.  It  was 
generally  noticed  that  these  two  gentlemen  were  always  talking 


THE    MOTHER'S    RECOMPENSE..  491 

politics,  discussing,  whenever  they  met,  the  affairs  of  the  na- 
tion, for  no  senator  was  more  earnest  and  interested  in  his 
vocation  than  Percy  Hamilton,  but  certainly  on  this  night 
there  was  no  thoughtful  gravity  of  a  senator  imprinted  on  his 
brow  ;  he  was  looking  and  laughing  at  the-  childish  efforts  of 
the  little  Lord  Manvers,  eldest  child  of  the  Earl  of  Delmont, 
then  in  his  seventh  year,  to  emulate  the  ease  and  dignity  of  his 
cousins,  Lord  Lyle  and  Herbert  and  Allan  Myrvin,  some  two 
or  three  years  older  than  himself,  who,  from  being  rather  more 
often  at  Oakwood,  considered  themselves  quite  lords  of  the  soil 
and  masters  of  the  ceremonies,  during  the  present  night  at 
least.  The  ladies  Mary  and  Gertrude  Lyle,  distinguished  by 
the  perfect  simplicity  of  their  dressr  had  each  twined  an  arm 
in  that  of  the  gentle,  retiring  Caroline  Myrvin,  and  tried  to 
draw  her  from  her  young  mother's  side,  where,  somewhat  abashed 
at  the  number  that  night  assembled  in  her  grandfather's  hall, 
she  seemed  determined  to  remain,  while  a  younger  sister  fro- 
licked about  the  room,  making  friends  with  all,  in  such  wild 
exuberance  of  spirits,  that  Mrs.  Myrvin's  gentle  voice  was  more 
than  once  raised  in  playful  reproach  to  reduce  her  to  order, 
while  her  husband  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  seemed  to  take 
delight  in  her  movements  of  elasticity  and  joy.  The  Countess 
St.  Eval,  as  majestic  and  fascinating  in  womanhood,  as  her 
early  youth  had  promised,  one  moment  watched  with  a  proud 
yet  softly  flashing  eye  the  graceful  movements  of  her  son,  and 
the  next,  was  conversing  eagerly  and  gayly  with  her  brother 
Percy  and  the  young  Earl  of  Delmont,  who  were  standing  near 
her  ;  seven  years  had  wrought  but  little  change  in  him.  who 
till  now  we  haw;  only  known  by  the  simple  designation  of  Ed- 
ward Fortescue.  Manhood,  in  its  prime,  had  rather  increased 
than  lessened  the  extreme  beauty  of  his  face  and  form  ;  few 
gazed  on  him  once  but  turned  to  gaze  again  ;  and  the  little 
smiling  cherub  of  five  years,  whose  soft  round  arms  were  twined 
round  Miss  Fortescue's  neck,  the  Lady  Ellen  Fortescue,  pro- 
mised fair  to  inherit  all  her  father's  beauty  and  peculiar  grace, 
and  endeared  her  to  her  young  mother's  heart  with  an  increased 
warmth  of  love,  while  the  dark  flashing  eyes  of  Lord  Manvers, 
and  his  glossy,  flowing,  ebon  curls  rendered  him,  Edward  de- 
clared, the  perfect  likeness  of  his  mother,  and  therefore  he  was 
the  father's  pet.  Round  Mr.  Hamilton  were  grouped,  in  atti- 
tudes which  an  artist  might  have  been  glad  to  catch  for  natural 
grace,  about  three  or  four  younger  grandchildren,  the  eldest 
uot  exceeding  four  years,  who,  too  young  to  join  in  the  dance 


49  i  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  Better  at  seven  than  seventeen,  Edward,  believe  me  ;  had 
she  numbered  the  latter,  I  might  be  rather  more  uneasy,  at 
present  I  can  admire  that  pretty  little  pair  without  any  such 
feeling.  Gertrude  told  me  to-day,  she  did  not  like  to  see  hoi- 
cousin  Charles  so  shy,  arid  she  should  do  all  she  could  to  make 
him  as  much  at  home  as  she  and  Leslie  are." 

'•  She  has  succeeded,  then,  admirably,"  replied  Edward 
laughing,  "  for  the  little  rogue  has  not  much  shyness  in  him 
now.  Herbert  and  Mary  have  got  that  corner  all  *o  them- 
selves; I  should  like  to  go  slily  behind  them,  and  find  out  what 
they  are  talking  about." 

"  Try  and  remember  what  you  used  to  talk  about  to  your 
partners  in  this  very  room,  some  twenty  years  back,  and  per- 
haps recollection  will  satisfy  your  curiosity,"  said  Lady  St. 
Eval,  smiling,  but  faintly,  however ;  the  names  Herbert  and 
Mary,  had  recalled  a  time  when  those  names  had  often  been 
joined  before,  and  the  silent  prayer  arose  that  their  fates  might 
not  resemble  those  whose  names  they  bore,  that  they  might 
be  spared  a  longer  time  to  bless  those  who  loved  them. 

'•  Twenty  years  back.  Caroline,  what  an  undertaking!  Allan 
is  more  like  the  madcap  I  was  then,  so  I  can  better  enter  into 
his  feelings  of  pleasure.  By  the  by,  why  are  not  Mrs.  Came- 
ron's family  here  to-night?  I  half  expected  to  meet  them  here 
yesterday." 

"  They  spend  this  season  with  Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Came- 
ron in  Scotland,"  replied  Lady  St.  Eval.  '-Florence  declared 
she  would  take  no  excuse ;  the  Marquis  and  Marchioness  of 
Malvern,  with  Emily  and  Louis,  are  there  also,  and  Lady  Al- 
ford  is  to  join  them  in  a  woek  or  two." 

u  You  were  there  last  summer,  were  you  not?" 

"  We  were.  They  are  one  of  the  happiest  couples  I  know, 
and  their  estate  is  most  beautiful.  Florence  declares  that, 
were  Sir  Walter  Scolt  still  living,  she  intended  to  have  made 
him  take  her  for  a  heroine,  her  husband  for  a  hero,  and  trans- 
port them  some  centuries  back,  to  figure  on  that  same  romantic 
estate  in  some  very  exciting  scenes." 

"  Had  he  killed  Cameron's  first  love,  and  rendered  him  des- 
perate, and  made  Florence  some  consoling  spirit,  to  remove 
despair,  instead  of  making  him  so  unromantically  enabled 
conquer  his  passion,  because  unreturned  ?  Why  I  could  make 
as  good  a  story  as  Sir  Walter  himself;  if  she  will  reward  me 
liberally,  I  will  set  about  it." 

"  It  will  never  do,  Lord  Delmont,  it  is  much  too  common- 


•j 
! 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  495 

place."  said  Mrs.  Percy  Hamilton,  smiling.     «  It  is  a  very  im- 
proper question,  I  allow,  but  who  was  Sir  Walter's  first  love  ?'; 

"  Do  you  not  know  ?  A  certain  friend  of  yours  whom  I 
torment,  by  declaring  she  is  invulnerable  to  the  little  god's 
arrows,"  he  answered,  joyously. 

'•  She  may  be  invulnerable  to  Cupid,  but  certainly  not  to 
any  other  kind  of  love."  remarked  Lady  St.  Eval,  as  she  smil- 
ingly pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Percy's  notice  Miss  Fortescue,  sur- 
rounded by  a  group  of  children,  and  bearing  on  her  expressive 
countenance  unanswerable  evidences  of  her  interest  in  the  hap- 
piness of  all  around  her." 

••  And  is  it  possible,  after  loving  lier  he  could  love  another?" 
she  exclaimed,  in  unfeigned  astonishment. 

-Disagreeably  unromantic,  Louisa,  is  it  not?"  said  Lord 
Delmont,  laughing  heartily;  "  but  what  was  the  poor  man  tc 
do?  Ellen  was  inexorable,  and  refused  to  bestow  on  him  any 
thing  but  her  friendship." 

"Which  he  truly  values,"  interrupted  Lady  St.  Eval. 
"You  must  allow,  Louisa,  he  was  wise,  however  free  from 
romance  ;  the  character  of  Florence,  in  many  points,  very  much 
resembles  Ellen:s.  She  is  one  of  the  very  few  whom  I  do  not' 
wonder  at  his  choosing,  after  what  had  passed.  Do  you  know. 
Edward,  Flora  Cameron  marries  in  the  spring?" 

li  I  heard  something  about  it ;  tell  me  who  to. 

She  complied,  and  Percy  and  Mr.  Grahame  joining  them, 
the  conversation  extended  to  more  general  topics. 

••  Nay,  Allan,  dear,  do  not  tease  your  sister  "  was  Misa 
Fortescue's  gentle  remonstrance,  as  Allan  endeavored,  some- 
what roughly,  to  draw  Minnie  from  her  side,  where,  however, 
she  clung  with  a  pertinacity  no  persuasion  or  reproach  could 
shake. 

"  She  will  hurt  Ellen,"  replied  the  boy,  sturdily,  "  and  sho 
has  no  right  to  take  her  place  by  you." 

"  But  she  may  stand  here  too,  there  is  room  for  us  both  ;" 
interrupted  the  little  Ellen,  though  she  did  not  offer  to  give 
up  her  place  in  her  aunt's  lap  to  her  cousin. 

"  Go  away,  Allan,  I  choose  to  stand  here,  and  aunt  Ellen 
ays  I  may,"  was  Minnie's  somewhat  impatient  rejoindor.  as 
lie  tried  to  push  her  brother  away,  though  her  pretty  little 
features  expressed  no  ill-temper  on  the  occasion,  for  she  laughed 
as  she  spoke. 

"  Aunt  Ellen  promised  to  dance  with  me,"  retorted  Allan, 
and  so  I  will  not  go  away  unless  she  comes  too." 


491  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"  Better  at  seven  than  seventeen,  Edward,  believe  me  ;  had 
she  numbered  the  latter,  I  might  be  rather  more  uneasy,  at 
present  I  can  admire  that  pretty  little  pair  without  any  such 
feeling.  Gertrude  told  me  to-day,  she  did  not  like  to  see  her 
cousin  Charles  so  shy.  and  she  should  do  all  she  could  to  make 
him  as  much  at  home  as  she  and  Leslie  are." 

'•  She  has  succeeded,  then,  admirably,"  replied  Edward 
laughing, ':  for  the  little  rogue  has  not  much  shyness  in  him 
now.  Herbert  and  Mary  have  got  that  corner  all  fo  them- 
selves ;  I  should  like  to  go  slily  behind  them,  and  find  out  what 
they  are  talking  about." 

••  Try  and  remember  what  you  used  to  talk  about  to  your 
partners  in  this  very  room,  some  twenty  years  back,  and  per- 
haps recollection  will  satisfy  your  curiosity,"  said  Lady  St. 
Eval.  smiling,  but  faintly,  however ;  the  names  Herbert  and 
Mary,  had  recalled  a  time  when  those  names  had  often  been 
joined  before,  and  the  silent  prayer  arose  that  their  fates  might 
not  resemble  those  whose  names  they  bore,  that  they  might 
be  spared  a  longer  time  to  bless  those  who  loved  them. 

'•  Twenty  years  back.  Caroline, what  an  undertaking!  Allan 
is  more  like  the  madcap  I  was  then,  so  I  can  better  enter  into 
his  feelings  of  pleasure.  By  the  by,  why  are  not  Mrs.  Came- 
ron's family  here  to-night?  I  half  expected  to  meet  them  here 
yesterday." 

"  They  spend  this  season  with  Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Came- 
ron in  Scotland,"  replied  Lady  St.  Eval.  '•  Florence  declared 
she  would  take  no  excuse ;  the  Marquis  and  Marchioness  of 
Malvern,  with  Emily  and  Louis,  are  there  also,  and  Lady  Al- 
ford  is  to  join  them  in  a  woek  or  two." 

"  You  were  there  last  summer,  were  you  not?" 

"We  were.  They  are  one  of  the  happiest  couples  I  know, 
and  their  estate  is  most  beautiful.  Florence  declares  that, 
were  Sir  Walter  Scott  still  living,  she  intended  to  have  made 
him  take  her  for  a  heroine,  her  husband  for  a  hero,  and  trans- 
port them  some  centuries  back,  to  figure  on  that  same  romantic 
estate  in  some  very  exciting  scenes." 

"  Had  he  killed  Cameron's  first  love,  and  rendered  him  dos- 
peratc,  and  made  Florence  some  consoling  spirit,  to  remove  hUi 
despair,  instead  of  making  him  so  unromantically  enabled  t<^ 
conquer  his  passion,  because  unreturned  ?  Why  I  could  make 
as  good  a  story  as  Sir  Walter  himself;  if  she  will  reward  me 
liberally,  i  will  set  about  it." 

"  It  will  never  do,  Lord  Delmont,  it  is  much  too  common- 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  495 

place."  said  Mrs.  Percy  Hamilton,  smiling.     "It  is  a  very  im- 
proper question,  I  allow,  but  who  was  Sir  Walter's  first  love  ?'• 

"  Do  you  not  know?  A  certain  frietid  of  yours  whom  I 
torment,  by  declaring  she  is  invulnerable  to  the  little  god's 
arrows."  he  answered,  joyously. 

'•  She  may  be  invulnerable  to  Cupid,  but  certainly  not  to 
any  other  kind  of  love."  remarked  Lady  St.  Eval,  as  she  smil- 
ingly pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Percy's  notice  Miss  Fortescue,  sur- 
rounded by  a  group  of  children,  and  bearing  on  her  expressive 
countenance  unanswerable  evidences  of  her  interest  in  the  hap- 
piness of  all  around  her." 

"  And  is  it  possible,  after  loving  Iter  he  could  love  another?" 
she  exclaimed,  in  unfeigned  astonishment. 

"Disagreeably  unromantic,  Louisa,  is  it  not?"  said  Lord 
Delmont,  laughing  heartily;  ';  but  what  was  the  poor  man  tc 
do?  Ellen  was  inexorable,  and  refused  to  bestow  on  him  any 
thing  but  her  friendship." 

"Which  he  truly  values,"  interrupted  Lady  St.  Eval. 
"You  must  allow,  Louisa,  he  was  wise,  however  free  from 
romance  ;  the  character  of  Florence,  in  many  points,  very  much 
resembles  Ellen's.  She  is  one  of  the  very  few  whom  I  do  not' 
wonder  at  his  choosing,  after  what  had  passed.  Do  you  know. 
Edward.  Flora  Cameron  marries  in  the  spring?" 

"  I  heard  something  about  it ;   tell  me  who  to. 

She  complied,  and  Percy  and  Mr.  Grahame  joining  them, 
the.  conversation  extended  to  more  general  topics. 

••  Nay,  Allan,  dear,  do  not  tease  your  sister ."  was  Miss 
Fortescue's  gentle  remonstrance,  as  Allan  endeavored,  some- 
what roughly,  to  draw  Minnie  from  her  side,  where,  however, 
she  clung  with  a  pertinacity  no  persuasion  or  reproach  could 
shake. 

"  She  will  hurt  Ellen,"  replied  the  boy,  sturdily,  "  and  she 
has  no  right  to  take  her  place  by  you." 

"  But  she  may  stand  here  too,  there  is  room  for  us  both  ;" 
interrupted  the  little  Ellen,  though  she  did  not  offer  to  give 
up  her  place  in  her  aunt's  lap  to  her  cousin. 

"  Go  away,  Allan,  I  choose  to  stand  here,  and  aunt  Ellen 

says  I  may,"  was  Minnie's  somewhat  impatient  rejoinder,  as 

pic  tried  to  push  her  brother  away,  though  her  pretty  little 

'"features  expressed  no  ill-temper  on  the  occasion,  for  she  laughed 

as  she  spoke. 

"  Aunt  Ellen  promised  to  dance  with  me,"  retorted  Allan, 
and  so  I  will  not  go  away  unless  she  comes  too." 


496  THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

"With  me,  with  me  !"  exclaimed  Lord  Manvers,  bounding 
forward  to  join  the  group.  She  promised  three  months  ago  to 
dance  with  me." 

"  And  how  often  have  I  not  performed  that  promise,  Mas- 
ter Charlie?"  replied  Ellen,  laughing, ';  even  more  often  with 
you  than  with  Allan,  so  I  must  give  him  the  preference  first." 

Her  good-natured  smiles,  the  voice  which  betrayed  such 
real  interest  in  all  that  pleased  her  little  companions,  banished 
every. appearance  of  discontent.  The  magic  power  of  affection 
and  sympathy  rendered  every  little  pleader  satisfied  and 
pieased ;  and,  after  performing  her  promise  with  Allan,  she 
put  the  final  seal  to  his  enjoyment  by  confiding  the  little  bash- 
ful Ellen  to  his  especial  care  ;  a  charge  which,  Myrvin  de- 
clared, caused  his  son  to  hold  himself  up  two  inches  higher 
than  he  hao  done  yet. 

"  Ellen,  if  you  do  not  make  yourself  as  great  and  deservedly 
a  favorite  with  my  cLildren  as  with  your  brother's  and  Emme- 
line's,  I  shall  never  forgive  you,"  said  the  Earl  St.  Eval,  who 
had  been  watching  Miss  Fortescue's  cheerful  gambols  with  the 
children  for  the  last  half  hour,  in  extreme  amusement,  and  now 
joined  her. 

"  Am  I  not  so  already,  Eugene  ?"  she  said,  smiling  that 
peculiar  smile  of  quiet  happiness  which  was  now  natural  to  her 
countenance.  "  I  should  be  sorry  if  I  thought  they  did  not 
love  me  equally ;  for  believe  me,  with  the  sole  exception  ot 
my  little  namesake  and  godchild,  my  nephews  and  nieces  are 
all  equally  dear  to  me.  I  have  no  right  to  make  an  exception 
even  in  favor  of  my  little  Ellen,  but  Edward  has  so  often 
called  her  mine,  and  even  Lilla  has  promised  to  share  her 
maternal  rights  with  me,  that  I  really  cannot  help  it.  Your 
children  do  not  see  so  much  of  me  as  Emmeline's,  and  that  is 
the  reason  perhaps  they  are  not  quite  so  free  with  me ;  but 
believe  me,  dear  St.  Eval,  it  will  not  be  my  fault  if  they  do 
not  love  me." 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  replied  the  Earl,  warmly.  "  I  have  but 
one  regret,  Ellen,  when  I  see  you  loving  and  beloved  by  so 
many  little  creatures." 

''  And  what  may  that  be  ?" 

';  That  they  are  not  some  of  them  your  own,  my  dear  gir 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  I   regret  the  fact,  of  which  each  year 
the  more  and  more  convinces  me,  that  you  are  determined 
ever  to  remain  single.     There  are  very  few  in  my  list  of  female 
friends  so  fitted  to  adorn  the  marriage  state,  very  few  who 


TIIE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  497 

wvald  make  a  better  mother,  and  I  cannot  tiut  regret  there 
arc  none  on  whom  you  seem  inclined  to  bestow  those  endear- 
ing and  invaluable  qualities." 

';  Regret  it  then  no  more,  my  dear  St.  Eval."  replied  Ellen, 
calmly,  yet  with  feeling;  "I  thank  you  for  that  high  opinion 
which  1  believe  you  entertain  of  me,  too  flattering  as  it  may 
be ;  but  cease  to  regret  that  I  have  determined  to  live  an 
old  maid's  life.  To  me.  believe  me,  it  has  no  terrors.  To 
single  women  the  opportunities  of  doing  good,  of  making 
others  happy,  are  more  frequent  than  those  granted  to  mothers 
and  wives;  and  while  such  is  the  case,  is  it  not  our  own  fault 
if  we  are  not  happy?  I  own  that  the  life  of  solitude  which  an 
old  maid's  includes,  may,  if  the  heart  be  so  inclined,  be  equally 
productive  of  selfishness,  moroseness  of  temper,  and  obstinacy 
in  opinion  and  judgment,  but  most  fervently  I  trust  such 
will  never  be  my  attributes.  It  can  never  be  while  my 
beloved  aunt  and  uncle  are  spared  to  me,  which  I  trust  they 
will  be  for  many,  many  years  longer ;  and  even  should  they 
be  removed  before  I  anticipate,  I  have  so  many  to  love  me, 
so  many  to  dearly  love,  that  I  can  have  no  time,  no  room  for 
selfishness."  , 

"  Do  not  mistake  me.  Ellen."  St.  Eval  replied,  earnestly ; 
';  I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  married  because  I  dread  your  be- 
coming like  some  single  women  ;  with  your  principles  such  can 
never  be.  Your  society,  your  influence  over  the  minds  of  our 
children  is  far  too  precious  to  be  lightly  wished  removed,  as 
it  would  be  were  you  to  marry.  It  is  for  your  own  sake, 
dearest  Ellen,  I  regret  it,  and  for  the  sake  of  him  you  might 
select,  that  you,  who  are  so  fitted  to  enjoy  and  to  fulfil  them, 
can  never  know  the  pleasures  attendant  on  the  duties  of  a 
happy  wife  and  mother:  that  by  a  husband  and  child,  the 
dearest  ties  on  earth,  you  will  go  down  to  the  grave  unloved." 

"  You  are  right,  St.  Eval,  they  are  the  dearest  ties  on  earth  ; 
but  pleasures,  the  pleasures  of  affection,  too,  are  yet  left  to  us, 
who  may  never  know  them.  Think  you  not,  that  to  feel  it  is 
my  place  to  cheer  and  soothe  the  declining  years  of  those  dear 
and  tender  guardians  of  my  infancy,  must  bring  with  it  enjoy- 
ent — ft>  see  myself  welcomed  by  smiles  of  love  an-1  words  of 
indness  by  all  my  brothers  and  sisters — to  see  their  children 
flock  around  me  as  I  enter,  each  seeking  to  be  the  first  to  ob- 
tain my  smile  or  kiss — to  know  myself  of  service  to  my  fellow- 
creatures,  I  mean  not  in  ray  own  rank,  but  those  beneath  me 
— to  feel  conscious  that  in  every  event  of  life,  particularly 


498  THE  MOTHER'S 

in  sickness  or  sorrow,  if  those  I  so  love  require  my  prer 
sence,  or  1  feel  I  may  give  them  comfort  or  sympathy,  at,  least 
I  may  fly  to  them,  for  I  shall  have  no  tie,  no  dearer  or  more 
imperious  duty  to  keep  me  from  them — are  not  these  consi- 
derations enough  to  render  a  single  life  indeed  one  of  hap- 
piness. St.  Eval  ?  Even  from  this  calm,  unruffled  stream  of 
life  can  I  not  gather  flowers?" 

"  You  would  gather  them  wherever  you  were  placed,  my 
dear  and  noble-minded,  Ellen,"  said  the  Earl,  with  a  warmth 
that  caused  her  eyes  to  glisten.  "  You  are  right ;  with  a  dis- 
position such  as  yours,  I  have  no  need  to  regret  you  have  so 
steadfastly  refused  every  offer  of  marriage.  My  girls  shall 
come  to  you  in  that  age  when  they  think  matrimony  is  the 
only  chance  of  happiness,  and  you  shall  teach  them  felicity 
dwells  not  so  much  in  outward  circumstances  as  in  the  temper 
of  the  mind.  Perhaps,  after  all.  Ellen,  you  are  happier  as  it 
is.  You  might  not  find  such  a  husband  as  I  would  wish«you, 
and  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  your  maternal  cares  rewarded  as 
were  poor  Mrs.  Greville's." 

"  I  rather  think  in  the  blessedness  of  the  present  the  past 
is  entirely  forgotten."  observed  Ellen,  thoughtfully.  "There 
are  cares  and  sorrows  attendant  on  the  happiest  lot ;  but  if  a 
mother  does  her  duty,  in  my  opinion  she  seldom  fails  to  ob 
tain  her  recompense,  however  long  deferred." 

"  You  are  right  my  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who  had 
been  listening  to  the  conversation  some  little  time  unobserved. 
Ci  There  arc  many  sorrows  and  many  cares  inseparable  from 
maternal  lore,  but  they  are  forgotten,  utterly  forgotten,  or  only 
remembered  to  enhance  the  sweetness  of  the  recompense  that 
ever  follows.  Do  you  not  think  to  see  my  children,  as  I  dc 
now  around  me,  walking  in  that  path  which  alone  can  lead  to 
eternal  life,  and  leading  their  offspring  with  them,  bringing  up 
so  tenderly,  so  fondly,  their  children  as  heirs  of  immortality, 
and  yet  lavishing  on  me,  as  on  their  father,  the  love  and  duty 
of  former  years  ?  Is  not  this  a  precious  recompense  for  all 
which  for  them  I  may  have  done  or  borne?  Even  as  I  watched 
the  departing  moments  of  my  Herbert,  as  I  marked  the 
triumphant  and  joyful  flight  of  his  pure  spirit  to  histicaven 
home. — even  then  was  I  not  rewarded  ?  I  saw  the  fruit 
those  lessons  I  had  been  permitted  through  grace  to  inculcate; 
his  last  breath  blessed  me,  and  was  not  that  enough  ?  Oh, 
my  beloved  children,  let  no  difficulties  deter  you,  no  tempta- 
tion, no  selfish  suffering  prevent  your  training  up  the  lovely 


:he 

m 

10™ 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  499 

infants  now  gambolling  around  you  in  the  way  that  they  should 
go; — solemn  is  the  charge,  awful  the  responsibility,  but  sweeter 
far  than  words  can  give  it,  the  reward  which  either  in  life  or 
death  will  then  be  yours." 

"  Ah,  could  we  perform  our  parts  as  you  have  yours,  dear- 
est mother,  then  indeed  might  we  hope  it,;)  exclaimed  the 
Countess  St.  Eval  and  Mrs.  Myrvin,  at  the  same  moment,  as 
they  drew  closer  to  .their  mother,  the  eyes  of  both  glistening 
with  emotion  as  they  spoke. 

And  if  we  do  reap  the  happiness  of  which  you  spoke,  to 
whom  shall  we  owe  it,  mother  ?"  demanded  Percy,  feelingly  ; 
for  he  too.  attracted  by  his  mother's  emotion,  had  joined  tne 
group.  ';  Whose  care,  under  God's  blessing,  has  made  us  as 
we  are.  and  Caught  us,  not  only  by  precept  but  example,  how 
to  conduct  ourselves  and  our  children — yours  and  my  father's  ; 
and  if  indeed  in  after  years  our  children  look  up  to  us  and 
bless  «s  as  we  do  you,  oh,  my  mother,  the  remembrance  of 
you  will  mingle  with  that  blessedness,  and  render  it  yet 
purer." 

'•  Truly  have  you  spoken,  my  son,"  said  Mr.  Hamilton,  whose 
little  companions  had  about  half  an  hour  before  been  trans- 
ported to  their  nursery.  "  While  sharing  with  your  dear 
mother  the  happiness  arising  from  your  conduct,  my  children, 
often  and  often  has  the  remembrance  of  my  mother  entered 
my  heart  to  chasten  and  enhance  tho**  feelings.  Gratitude  to 
to  her,  reverence  of  her  memory.  LUT-P  mingled  Avith  the  pres- 
ent joy.  amd  so  will  it  be  with  you.  Your  parents  may  have 
Descended  to  the  grave  before  your  Children  can  be  to  you 
what  you  have  been  to  us.  but  we  shall  be  remembered  ;  long, 
1'iiig  may  you  feel  as  you  think  on  y^ur  tn^tlior.  my  beloved, 
children.*and  teach  your  offspring  to  venerate  her  memory ; 
that  the  path  of  the  just  is  indeed  a«  a  shining  light,  which 
ehinetL  more  and  more  unto  the  perfect,  day." 


THE      END 


I 


UCSB   H9RARY 


*£  ^JTHERNJtEGIONAl.  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  604  1 90     9 


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